From I Am Not an Allegory (these are people i know)
by Libby Emmons

Ruby in a hospital gown, in a hospital room.


They did things to me that I don’t remember. And a bunch of other things that I Do remember.

My ex used to say you could fill a book with the things I’ve blacked out.

When I think about my life sometimes it stretches out ahead of me and sometimes it stretches out behind me, but it never does both directions at once.

I don’t like to look back but when I look in front of me it stretches out so far ahead that I can’t even see the life I’m living right now.

Two floors up when I was little there was a candy tray on the nurses’ station. My mom would only let me have two pieces a day but I always tried to make it more. The day she died, looking so small in her bed, I thought ‘today I’ll have four.’ And I felt guilty to feel sad.

A breeze comes through the back of this dress.

One of the geriatric patients made a pass at me. He’s a big man, alot bigger than me. The next time I see him I might let him. He’s always reaching out. I like how his hand looks, soft with folds of skin. I think to feel his gums on my breast would be nice. If an old man would suckle me I think I could relax for a bit.

One thought on “Ruby

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