Monday, February 1, 2010
Mommy's shoes don't fit me, I drag them around on pink carpet. Mommy's pearls don't fit me, They hang down around by my knees. Mommy's Dior caftans don't fit me, I let them submerge me into a fabric cocoon. I eclipse like the sun into darkness. Mommy's screams paralyze me, I don't discern. I am not scared of goblins under my canopy bed, I am petrified of the monster that lives under mommy's duvet. Mommy's Versace sunnies cover up her tumescent, bruised eyes. She drives me to school in her Mercedes wagon. She drives home. On the drive back she screams a scream Edvard Munch could never re-create. The colors of her screams are too crimson to mock with acrylics . Daddy goes off to work. He begets magic out of numbers. His charisma beguiles the unknowing. Daddy fucks his mistress. Daddy's mistress has wide hips. Mommy waits for daddy, while the pates au fruits de mer gets colder. She taps her manicured fingers over and over, like the rhythm of a war drum. Daddy fucks his mistress analogously to the beat mommy makes with her hands. Daddy walks through the door. Mommy does not greet him with a kiss. Mommy calls him a bastard. Daddy closes his fist. Daddy lollop's mommy's face. He persists. He breaks her. Her mascara runs. He apologizes. She outwardly accepts. Day after day, Repeat.Repeat.Repeat. Little girls eyes never forget. Little girl grows up. Little girl finds a suitor just like daddy. Little girl now has Versace sunnies to cover up her swollen eyes. Now mommy's shoes fit all too perfect. Little girl walks in them everyday. Little girl has a little princess of her own. Little girl has a glass house, white picket fences and all. Little girl impales herself on said white picket fence. A For Sale sign swings in the winter gust. The palace a vacant space. Little girl's obituary runs in the New York Times. Little girl died of natural causes, she was a beautiful creature, full of life. She leaves behind a daughter five years of age and a loving husband. She lived the suburban dream. She died in a suburban nightmare, but not one soul would ever know because the family portraits told a lie.