My best friend was fiction. The ocean where I lived was nothing but an enormous tank capable of sustaining the plastic we created in our own image. On odd days the electric lampshade sun would malfunction and the skin of tourists would turn moldy grey from calcium deficiency or rather a will not to see the fabricated sky for what it was: a cardboard cutout created with the sole intention of comfort.
My number in school was always 33
whether it was outside playing sports or being the 33rd person in line at the cafeteria or hanging that number on the lapel of my shirt like a cross at the top of a hill in a Roman crucifying.
For this my life revolved around that number.
33 reasons to go outside and witness the cruelty
33 socks missing their twin at the bottom of a washing machine
33 ideal mates that always say the wrong thing before the meeting takes place
33 witches hanging at the bottom of a lake for swimming instead of sinking
my favorite fiction is the one that tries so hard to hide under the bed
the one that lies on the front porch step of that man accused of robbery in his 20’s
the one that believes when it’s told the earth is melting
that it will just goop up at the bottom of the devil’s dinner plate