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by Francine Witte

I call up Clownboy to tell him we’re through.

I’ll notify the press, he says.

I really mean it this time. Outside, the sky is tangy with rain.

Clownboy doesn’t care.

He doesn’t care because he’s got Priscilla now, who used to be my sister, but isn’t anymore. We would stay up late nights painting boys onto each other’s fingernails, braiding love into each other’s hair.

Now, that’s just a hunk of junk. Plastic choking the ocean.

You’ve gone too far this time, Clownboy. I say this to my silent phone. Sandpaper words in my throat.

Next thing, Clownboy is honking up the driveway, in his silly Clownboy truck. He steps outside even though the sky has started a good soppy rain. I can see the drops ping off his Clownboy truck. When they fall on his face, I pretend they are tears.

I pick the present he gave me last Christmas. A jingle bell necklace he found in the trash. When he gave it to me, I hated him a little. He kissed that right out of me, though.

I’m a bigger clownboy than Clownboy could ever be. I put on my necklace and head out, nearly naked, into the rain.

Francine Witte is the author of four poetry chapbooks and two flash fiction chapbooks. Her full-length poetry collection, Café Crazy, has recently been published by Kelsay Books. She is a reviewer, blogger, and photographer. She is a former English teacher. She lives in NYC.