Baseness

I know that smile.
          A stretch of lips daring to hope.
I know that body.
          Stomach too soft, breasts too full, hips too wide.
I know that dream.
          Maybe he's looking at you.

You don't know.
That look.
          When someone really sees you.
That  touch.
          Gloriously base, promising immorality.
That awareness.
          An itch, a hunger deep inside begging relief.

They say it's like butterflies, the touch of silk. And warm, so much warmth
            I never felt any softness,
A whipping wind. A crashing tree. I could never escape.

Let me paint a picture. It will be harsh and vibrant.
            Your eyes cannot stay on it, but cannot look away. It hurts.
There is a smell. Thick and cloying, malodorous even.
                                    Breathe deep now, darling.
The colors, the scent, the screams and cries.
                                                It all belongs to you.

Swirls

“You’re a fucking whore Sasha! Every time I leave, it’s a new guy.” Bram’s lips thinned and he stared at Sasha, dark blue eyes brimming with hatred. From my hiding spot in the closet I saw her expression as Sasha tried to plead with him.

“Bram, you know I love you. Whoever’s telling you this is lying! Please, let me show you.” Sasha got down on her knees in front of Bram and started tugging at his belt.

“Stop!” he snarled, then, gentling his voice, “I don’t want you anymore, Sash. You make me feel guilty for nothing. Get out.” My eyes flickered between the two. Sasha’s pink bodice was heaving in frustration, matching the anger shining in her expression. The silent standoff stretched from one minute into five. Full, rosy lips pursed, Sasha broke, “You’ve never done anything for us Bram! You cause problems. Back there, hitting Trick might’ve made you feel better, but it only hurt me.” Her gray eyes filled with tears, and I felt myself weaken toward her cause, but Bram was unaffected. “Shut up, Sash.  I’m done. When will you understand?” his voice was calm and quiet, like he didn’t want to waste any emotion on her. Sasha left in a huff, pale taffeta dress swirling like the lives she disregarded in her selfishness.

            From inside the dark closet, surrounded by Bram’s scent, I watched his dark head fall into his hands. I wanted to help, but fear kept me hidden. I’m sorry. I'll try to help. I can fix it...I hope.

Wastrel Trees

“Welcome! Happy Holidays! I’m so glad you arrived safely!” she grins enthusiastically, charm bracelets clinking together over her bony wrists. We have the lights and the tree. Ornate decorations, hung with a meticulous fervor, adorn our house. Dozens of mirrors on the west wall reflect the brilliant colors of the tree. Artfully scattered presents, wrapped in red and gold with green ribbons perched atop, wait for Christmas morning. Embroidered stockings hang from a mantle above a crackling log in a marble fireplace. Store bought pinecones permeate the house with a fresh, woodsy scent, and baked cookies drench the air in hot, sugary layers. The signs on the wall, the songs on the radio, the books I read to my little brother; they all say Christmas revolves around peace, love, joy, and hope.

            In my house, the perfume of pinecones and cookies covers stale cigarettes. My mother’s quirky holiday sweaters overshoot her thin arms, perfectly hiding the needle marks. Empty tequila bottles cower behind overly excited snowmen and red nosed reindeer. At night, I wait up, not for Santa Claus and his magic reindeer, but for my mother to pass out, drunk. I clean, not wrapping paper, but vomit and used needles. All I want for Christmas is relief, but unlike Atlas, I cannot trick another into carrying the weight for me.

            She giggles, and I groan, aware of what follows. “You dog!” she shrieks playfully, “You shouldn’t have!” Her vibrant smile flashes on me. “Look Aimee! A new necklace! See how gorgeous? The steely blue eyes of her new boyfriend linger over my body. “Hello.” he leers

            “Oh, Jim,” she blushes, “I forgot to introduce you to my daughter Aimee.” Her eyes shine too brightly and her hands shake in anticipation as she chatters about everything and nothing.

            Jim slides away from my mother, ever so subtly inching near me. His candy apple red tie screams out at some unknown instinct inside, and I want to run.

            Sometimes, while driving to school, my little brother mumbles to himself in the backseat, and I watch the exits pass by. I wonder if I could leave and not come back, just take the baby, and run away. But Jim creeps closer, and I break out of my reverie. “Aimee,” my mother simpers, “I need to fix Jim some dinner. You can entertain him, right sweetheart?”

            “Yes.” I murmur, ignoring the pain in her mistletoe green eyes. “I know what to do.”