I haven’t a clue as to what I am doing. My wild hair betrayed me, long before I took this route. Ra-ut. It told the world to keep its eye on me. It said, this one wears leather, this one has a whip, this one has two words that mean nothing, this one has a bible to create the illusion of innocence.
I am a woman intimidated by her own femininity. A writer afraid to write. A lover who is too anxious to listen to her heart. A person of sound mind, with no balance. A daughter who denies her parents. A pair of lungs that cannot take a deep breath. Useless.
When I was a child, I liked to pretend I was a mermaid who traveled to underwater libraries. The bathtub has a world in it, that will not go down the drain. I also liked my eggs sunny-side up, with corn in my yolk. I would hide coffee from my mother, because she said it would stunt my growth, and there is nothing worse than being short. Not once, you hear me, did I say, “But mother, you are short, and it‘s not so bad.” Then again, I don’t know if that’s the cause of her misery. Not the pills, not my father, not a terrible childhood. It’s her height.
Margaret would have been born soon, I think. I imagine what I would have looked like, with a round, firm belly. I imagine a baby in my arms. I want to feel the regret some would like me to punish myself with. But all I can feel, is freedom.