Danse Macabre

Artist: Matthew Wong.

My little feet hurt when he pulled on them. I didn't see; he was trying to get me to grow faster. Only to grow. What he'd do, he used to grab my toes with belly-of-the-ocean claws, then tickle my soles with his feather-cap to make them wriggle. Myself, do the worm squirm. It sounds like a dance. All the strange things that happened to me do.
My mouth made an 'o' shape whenever I felt his scent in my lungs, so on the eve of my seventeenth, I dipped a needle in formalin and sewed my lips shut to keep out the birds. Interactions between two selves became much smoother after that, and with only my no-good words, the victim, née culprit, you could say it was a steal.
Blow hot and cold during serpentine walks along the deserted marina. When they left, mum-dad confessed they weren't sure if they were coming back. There was more to life than raising children, they said. And there was less to us than they'd hoped, so hey-ho. Still, they said look for us on the waterline each day at dusk, and we'll try to wave, so you know we've landed safe. Sure, that was years ago now.
One night, when I couldn't hide my tears quick enough, he brought out the speculum from his hack coat pocket and stepped up close to check for fleas behind my eyes. Ever since the Harms baby, he carries it everywhere in case of emergencies. Whenever I feel like crying now, I get a strong whiff of his carrion breath and clear out my sinuses instantly. I know to be a very good girl, if you ask.
Mum-dad never wave, so I can only assume they ran out of oxygen somewhere inside the asteroid belt and died. I've made graves out of old run-out deodorant can and handle-missing dad-stained coffee mug, but I only visit when everybody's awake and no one sees anyone else being hopeful. Things can get awful loud down under the pier, where the druggies used to collide. My guts implode at the memory of being a child, of rocking up to syringe tracks and the taste of foreign sweat in my mouth. It hurts, but guess it's better than me hurting, so I scrape carefully my insides and give a good, hearty rinse when I'm done. Names tiptoe up the dome of my palate but find me stubborn and see no choice but to tiptoe unassumingly back.
He says eventually, the ringing in my ears will stop. I think sometimes it already has, but then remember the pact. When I was six, I told Gran about the nostalgic Dvorak, the echoes of our long-packed orchestra, and promised if they ever stopped, I'd take off my crinoline and walk into the sea. There is a small mound of bravery in being the last to hold out, but at the bottom of it all, buried under my own hubris, I am still a staunch coward.
Walk along the quay. Dip my toes into the cement, then turn to check he's there. It is creeping up on daytime once again. Behind me, mum-dad have begun turning into identical pillars of salt. Wave to say I've gone nowhere, and trusty bag clutched to side, one swaying-reed hand raises to waive back.

I know I should tell you why any of these songs, but the truth is, I just make up nonsense words to accompany them.

I can't explain. Inside a stranger's bed, I am only a sleepless bird.

It's Tuesday again. I think. Hi, @ablaze.