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✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
daddy's dead.
now mama ties ribbons 'round her throat 'cause she misses his whiskey fingers and half-drunk water bottles. the fifty cents in his pocket on a summer afternoon of 76', shoelaces on train tracks, and sipping mint lemonade in fine china with a pinky out for that cherry on top.
daddy's dead.
daddy's dead and mama knows what i did. mama knows i gulped down that glass of squeezed fresh orange so she won't smell the flesh of aunt martha's only son upon my tongue. mama knows i eat boys and i have an addiction to youth-flavored-anything-edibles.
'it's just you and me against the world, darling. tell me all your little secrets and i pinky promise to never tell'
so i tell her-
with tremor in my fingers, because mama never liked em maintenance medicines. with tremor in my fingers, i touch her sorry lips.
why was she sorry?
it's him who should be.
'it's not a tragedy, mama' i tell her, 'death is only tragic if we want it to be'.
i slip my little white church dress down my shoulders and mama watches- she knows. she has to.
my belt-bruised back, i was his sweet mare 'mama look at me'. my belly cut open, his seatbelts were my leash, 'mama look at me'.
'he was volatile. he was a lost cause'. my low whispers are muffled out by the loud stereo.
'mama look at me'
it's that time of the year. it's that august slips into september time of the year right 'round the corner when grandpa slipped into the bathtub and died.
'they found chlorine in his system, flooded in pool water' mama says.
'it wasn't me, mama you have to believe me'
when i was seven, i ran away from home. not the pack-your-bags-and-catch-train-thirteen-runaway. but the picking-up-chewed-gums-from-white-sand-roads-and-bone-hunting-in-graveyards-runaway.
staying-outdoors-for-a-few-hours-runaway.
grandpa found me by the docks and grabbed my wrist. 'mama i swear he meant no harm' but his skin was all calloused and aged, 'mama i swear he meant no harm' i felt his flesh on my bones and i loved it.
grandpa was my best friend.
when he died i started throwing daddy's razors at the walls and using em blades to cut that wrist open, 'but mama it's not all bad'. i just needed to feel that skinned flesh under my fingertips so i never forget the one person who made my little lonesome heart happy.
'tell me, mama- do you still think it was me?'
'yes'
now that's a tragedy.
this cruel children's game and these ugly church songs, spiderwebs in the pantry, i'd never touch a candy.
i'm a little strange. i know that.
i weave marbles into my bones because i wanna shine, mama. don't call me dramatic, tragic. it's only a tragedy if you want it to be.
let's tell the town daddy was martyred for his faith- you'll lie for me, won't you?
