On the precipice of despair – laughing. Calling out the names of old lovers
like wisps of smoke from an extinguished flame, riding the current of the winds
of time. What leaves the taste of a Queen, in the mouth of a young child.
Lusting. Reaching. Agonizing. Calling out in the darkness. See me. Feel me.
Hear me. Know me.
Isabella was a
slut, or so they said. A real piece of shit, but also a lovely girl. It was
hard, knowing your husband wanted the babysitter. Maybe you’d call it to her
face, if you were any braver, any more sure of yourself. But it’s hard to know
where you stand, on an island made of sand. Falling down under the weight of
lies, bigotry and pride. Who were these simple people. With the flashlight
smiles and grotesque lies.
He came on her
like a flash. Without warning, brightly. Suddenly, there he was, calling her
name, motioning towards his cock. That red little pecker, all alive with the thought
of her hot young mouth. Where was her mother after all?
Fast-forward
past 1983. Past the days that spilled out like rain onto the sidewalk and into
the gutters. Past the time her parents met and decided, foolishly, to know one
another as lovers do. Its hard to blame children.
But we do.
1999, and all
the rights of childhood are gone, even if technically still intact. Daughter
maybe more adult than guardian. Though never when and where it counts. How dare
she anyway, suppose that she could cook all on her own, simply because, she
couldn’t stand that hand that feeds her.
Isabella you
slut. You 13 year old child. You babysitter. You stoned hippie. You mother
fucker. Isabella you Queen. You delicious danish of perfection. Don’t let
those fat little thighs make you think otherwise. Squish squish. I know how
they go, rubbing on the inside, causing you pain. Masking who’s to blame.
Forget him. Forget what he said when he was drunk. Remember Isabella, remember
your name, and that Paris is where you go to be alone.
