Promises / Gappy toothy grin
I’m a princess. This dress swishes – pretend I’m dancing, there’s no music.
Sometimes I get hot and scratchy. I only half skip cos I know they’re watching.
They never dance. I stand still when they tell me, when they take my photo.
They say I’m tall. I’m a good girl. I really want a dolly. I could talk to it and
stop pulling my hair. They say if I’m good, the birthday fairies will come. I
keep waiting. I promise to be –
Before (and after, if they could) / Resting bitch
Your skirt looks nice you say. You’re really stunning, such long legs. My skin
turns to chopped ham and cold custard. Their lips barely move upwards and if
it wasn’t for the clear throat and guttural tone, you’d think they were nervous.
Hollow. I don’t think they know that tights give you thrush. Don’t you get
cold? Don’t your shoes rub? They wring their clasped hands as if feeling my
pain already. Maybe pleading. Womanhood is risky: blisters or crusty cunts.
Maybe frostbite. Have you had your hair done you say? Very dramatic.
I wish I could be as brave.
What if? / Bags
Having shelled two healthy children – I’m lucky. Should I tell her that you only
bake with fresh eggs? That you bite your lip, but don’t always close your eyes?
Will his father let him know? I keep this house as their incubator. Tonight,
I will thank Jamie Oliver for the inspiration that produced another clean,
colourful, med-inspired family meal that everyone will eat with enthusiasm.
Without their warmth, there would be time for boredom. And thinking.
Nothing happened / Come to bed
A whore is a whore. (Un)dressed in the standard issue (ripped) fishnets
and basque. Not even hiding behind those – Asking for it. Desperate. It is a
satisfactory acceptance. A reason to be. You fuck the pain away. Afterwards,
you shed that skin and develop new scales. Markings on the skin titillate.
Their imprint. I imagine grass. Tall grass swaying sideways, like a slinky
falling down stairs.
