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nowhere is my happy place
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Him scary. Him dagger fingered, little pins, little holes. Him like to touch the baby. Stand aside her. Looking down. Smiling lipped but never smiling eyed. Then there is the flies.
Flies buzzing up the walls. Flies all around the nursery air. Them making coughs. Them hide the baby. Blanket of crackling bodies. Dripping filth. Feeding the baby with dancing rice. Momma lights the candles—sweet vanilla and other plastic flower smells.
Reeks, reeks! him sing scampering down the hall. Little laughing, little scratching, rusty fingers long and sharp.
I is hiding. Quiet.
Him come for me with momma telling lies. I is sick, she say. Him is a doctor, a Christian, a good man. Him has the medicine, holy water, God’s golden light. Momma never have to pray now, her sleep instead. New daddy will safe you.
Her tell a lie.
Her tell a truth too: You is dying, child.
Touch by touch, the blood come like fingerpaint. Tracing flowers, tracing pain. The mattress. The blanket made by Nanna who loved I most.
Nanna’s tissue paper hands, soft with love, knobby with years, fat blue veins. Her was gentle in the soul. Her sat smiling, telling tales, making magic with yarn and sticks. All gone now. Him take it. Him screaming for the money Nanna bring to church. I is quiet. I is scared. Blood and blood and blood. Momma is off dreaming in the window of the car.
Now I is hiding in a dream of Nanna, of momma smiling young as me in pictures Nanna kept. Momma grown is a momma I don’t know.
Now flies and filth and dreams and dripping time. Him doesn’t know my mind still ticks. Him never check for breath upon my lips.
Now I is still. I is dead.
Don’t never never tell him any different.
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0 replies since 31/1/2024, 12:33 28 views
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