Author: Sarah Edwards

Sarah Edwards comes from Canada but currently doesn't live there. She has been published in Uut Poetry, Purple Pig Lit, and 22nd Century Literature. She can also be found on Tumblr.

‘ello there, please calm the fudge

A panic attack stands still. It’s been over a month since I chopped off my hair without even a second thought, the electric blue threads making a sacrificial sphere around my two feet. I didn’t wear panties that day. Yes, the thought of some lone threads, bullied by the fake bathroom air, making their way up in my vjayjay-hole to hide did cross my mind. “IT’S CALLED A VAGINA STRAW KISSER!” Maybe the threads will teach my clit to do a blue tango. The thought made the right knee wobble sideways and the scissors in my hand almost made me the one nostril ass chick. If you slap the clit around with blue dye, you will cum blue perhaps. Organs need other vital organs to perform any blown or blow-ing step. The electric blue was now a bearded fedora for my skull and bangs that can put any realized female part in a gasping frenzy, till sweat beads heave thick foaming pasty froth. That was the last day my nipples refused to be cut and replaced by some foreign saliva, always tapping the faucet so it never ends the leakage. Now I am far from all the sapping tree trunks, far from the prom of furry teeth that bite and suck at the same time so your thumbs bear the same amount of nausea. Gelatinous fuck you is my current location. Every day I wake up so the leather couch can flatten and spread my butt, spanking a rusted butterfly onto my ass cheeks. Tiny brains and mammoth eyes splattered equally, signed “Welcome to ‘Merica mutton-hole, swallow before spitting!”.

In a Relationship

I offered you a piece without knowing that it was from my flesh
you knew though,
remember how you said that you’d take it as long it didn’t stain your coat.
It was winter the first time,
and your coat was black so the red didn’t even show up much.

In the 1940’s when the gentleman takes off his hat
pulling out the chair,
the lady sits down.
That’s what we’re supposed to do.  But my etiquettes are slightly rowdy.
I can’t sit as my leg hurts, plus I’m missing a piece of my flesh.
It’s not my best look, the blood dripping everywhere
leaving a blatant waste on the floor.

You threw away your coat, not really though,
it’s in storage in a box of it’s own.
You said it stinks too much.
So I picked out a brown leather jacket for you,
as red and brown are complementing colors.

My leg still aches quite assuredly.