Thursday, April 26, 2007

You know, things that are poisonous are also often brightly colored, as a warning or as a lure. Depending on if you're a risk-taking sort of species. I could be a poisonous sort of girlbutterfly, so when you find me and pin my wings to your foam display, try not to get any of my scales on your fingertips. That's how I get into your blood.

When the winds were right in the deserts of 1950's Nevada the government told people living in those little four-second towns to head out to their front yards and watch their skies bloom with radiation. They even wore little badges to measure the number of those cranky subatomic particles that floated on the breezes to settle into their skin. All those times that all those people rested the backs of their legs on the sun-warmed bumpers of their cars to watch their science kiss the atmosphere came back to haunt them, later. When their cells finally mustered up their own energy and revolted.

It's only that something happened when you looked at me with an eyebrow raised, and my bones filled with neon.

But I've only got this one hammer.
And a body only holds enough iron to make one nail. So there isn't a whole lot I could build for you, but I could tie together your wounds with yellow embroidery thread. If you wanted. There isn't any shame in a few stitches.

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