she, her, she’d, hers, she’s –
floating prim and proper around the head of curls
washed on every alternate day
i curl my toes.
a dress? a pair of pants.
since when did clothes tell us what to be?
since always, silly. innocent giggles twinned with
roses picked, slowly dying, on every anniversary,
birthday,
graduation.
sitting on the dining table.
he, him, he’d, his, he’s –
i yelled at my mom
till my throat burst into flames.
the underside of my nails caked with wall plaster and blood,
baggier shirts with ripped jeans. really spicing it up, aren’t we?
blue eyeshadow glimmering in the night light
sitting like a smug bitch on eyes filled with tears. i’m scared of the dark.
nope.
they, them, they’d, their, they’re –
breathing heavily like i’ve walked up the stairs.
what’s this then? skirts?
i’ve cut my hair. my dad hates it.
i’ve cut my hair!
but i
don’t know
i think it gets easier once i grow up? thirty-six and staring at
a shape, just a shape.
i’m a bit lost,
and angry, and
sad.
she, them, they’d, hers, she’s –
tufts of old curly hair are being cradled in my palms.
i’ve got all sorts of eyeshadow now, but i’m still a little afraid of the dark.
i think i’ve had my fill of bossy clothes
floating prim and proper around the head of curls
washed on every alternate day
i curl my toes.
a dress? a pair of pants.
since when did clothes tell us what to be?
since always, silly. innocent giggles twinned with
roses picked, slowly dying, on every anniversary,
birthday,
graduation.
sitting on the dining table.
he, him, he’d, his, he’s –
i yelled at my mom
till my throat burst into flames.
the underside of my nails caked with wall plaster and blood,
baggier shirts with ripped jeans. really spicing it up, aren’t we?
blue eyeshadow glimmering in the night light
sitting like a smug bitch on eyes filled with tears. i’m scared of the dark.
nope.
they, them, they’d, their, they’re –
breathing heavily like i’ve walked up the stairs.
what’s this then? skirts?
i’ve cut my hair. my dad hates it.
i’ve cut my hair!
but i
don’t know
i think it gets easier once i grow up? thirty-six and staring at
a shape, just a shape.
i’m a bit lost,
and angry, and
sad.
she, them, they’d, hers, she’s –
tufts of old curly hair are being cradled in my palms.
i’ve got all sorts of eyeshadow now, but i’m still a little afraid of the dark.
i think i’ve had my fill of bossy clothes