I wonder if I have always disliked Juliet. If so, I believe it is because there is nothing attractive about her personality. Her character is made out of Popsicle sticks and recycled construction paper. A tongue stolen from a field mouse. Eyes made of buttons, decorated with lead-based paint.
We were children once. No one just manifests in adulthood, product of dust bunnies and a fervent desire. But I remember so little of her as a child. Only images of her rage and fear of abandonment come through. Only her demands that I provide her with the nurture and care, our own mother could not provide. Only that I denied or sacrificed parts of my own childhood, so that she could live out hers. And now, as adults, she acts the same, and wants the same.
Another year has begun, and already it is plagued with problems. My kite does not take flight. It is that my mother pushes me off the hill, sister keeps cutting my string, and the dictator imposes limitations on when I can use my own legs. I am still for everybody, and not ever for myself.
“You do not feel. You do not have a heart,” mother says.
I remind her, I have heard this before. I made signs and statues out of it.
“You would make a terrible mother. I am happy that you chose to end your pregnancy,” she goes on.
And this, this is new. This sparkles. This has a firm handle, and a sharp blade.
Everything I do not need, will fade away. I will say that I feel mutilated without it. I will say that it punctures me in blue. I will sob and howl. Then, I will notice that it has left me weightless. Then, I will be free to move, to dance.