Murder

I.
I have killed my paintbrushes.
I left their spiny heads without water
constantly upright in the jar,
a torture pose of disregard
forced to watch while the plants drank abundantly.
They are dispersed and peaceful now
on some graven trash pile
sunken below the peaches.
This is a brazen tribute
to my inability to care less.

II.
I have killed my treadmill.
My scaffold of sanity
in a better-than-medication way,
gasped itself to a locked and upright position;
the thrumming motor wheezed and defeated
by my constant, desperate need for better legs.
I’m cut short, standing;
my penance of too much cake the night before
left pooling into bored ankles
over pretty shoes

III.
I have killed my neck.
In an itsy-bitsy, collapsing way along my spout;
tired of hold up twelve pounds of bull-headedness,
throwing a temper tantrum at 3 AM.
It is pouting now, unable to accept a Vicodin time out;
whimpering into its annoyed sister-shoulder.
She’s sick of all the babysitting,
never getting even one solid,
drunken night off
for salsa dancing.

Melissa Louis Fletcher has been published in Newsweek, Indigo Rising, Pregnant Moon Review, X is for Xylophone and others. She was raised with polite midwest sensibilities but has lived all over the place, too. Although currently residing in the Twin Cities, she steadfastly remains a Wisconsin Badger football fan.

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