I was standing by the friers, dousing garbage in grease and oil for the wethers and gulls. It was hot and I was drowning in their orders. I looked up to see the face of a jester and the hair of a witch, twitching in my direction. I felt my heart move like a butterfly choking on jags of smoke. The lie set into my skin like a parasite and I could feel the insecurity picking up its pace, fighting through the years, finding me here today. The space breathed around me, stole the oxygen and let out a lowly sigh of dejection as I spotted her high, bijou frame.
I am mother, stretched to full capacity, toast that’s been left out too long.
I am old news, a rhythm of drama and gross sin, a series taken one season too far.
She is new, big-breasted child, full of new twists and near misses
captivating, lively, and enticing.
A full resume of verbs and adjectives he hasn’t tried on yet.