To be Alone

-->

 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.