I’m a living doll in a dollhouse I cup the hot ceramic eggshell with blue flowers demand it be sweetened “but we don’t put sugar in this tea” I’m told (why not?) I sip bitter the strange leaves settling at the bottom left unfinished half will sit untouched by the time my parents pick up …
Though red, it was an ordinary rose, meaning it did not come in love or deep appreciation, but was offered to me, and one like it to my daughter, by a waiter on Mother’s Day. Without vase, the rose found water in a tall glass on my kitchen counter. Perfection is not a word …
My choices made me who I am. I could’ve been the Son of Sam— I could’ve been a violent man. The image of my father returning from jail hangs in my mind like a dusty painting. I want it to stay the same, but the colors keep changing. My mother and I share …