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c, stalked

Jamie Hunyor

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Problem is I’ve followed you all the way home. I followed you from the park downtown to the gas station in the Milky Way. From Paris to Venice then down to Algiers. All the way across time and space back to Toledo, Ohio. Oh, the luxury of travel avoids me. I float and skate through your eyes to the back of your legs but you lost feeling in your journey across the Atlantic Ocean. The vessel was only built for ten passengers plus the captain but it was packed to the brim with souvenirs of metal-coated chocolate candy coins and scarves made from horsehair. I found my home in that baby’s arms. Crying in the depth of the ocean, I comforted her with whispers of heat and wedding band dreams. But I am still invisible to the naked eye. Microscopic parasitic spaceworm in the baby’s arms, thriving underwater feeding on cramped submarine. I enjoy the aftermath of the voyage, lounging in your luggage and digging through your past.

But your home is not my home and you forgot to invite me out. The only logical solution to this equation is blue couch hatemongering. You shouted at me, you cursed at me; you called me all kinds of beautiful names then pulled out a water rifle. Pointed it at me and washed the fire out of my lungs, sending me on my way.