daynabhattiroberts.blog

my father used to yell at the kids who sped down our road in their colorful cars 

he’d raise his hands, he’d flail, and his face would turn the color of the 

raspberries i was forced to eat for breakfast because ‘pancakes make you sick’ 

they don’t make me sick, i’d think  

i’d think; you’re too old for this anger. or perhaps; you’re old, and that’s why this anger

and now i think this; i am old and i don’t have your anger. i thank god for that, if not anything else

when you’re young the speeding teenagers are all you ever want to be 

at my princess plastic vanity i used to smudge mothers lipstick on my small face 

molten hot from being wedged between leather car seats in this brutal 

august sun, from being clasped in my small sweaty hands 

i’d kept it. don’t tell father, i’d think 

i’d kept it 

it tasted like sidewalk chalk and it felt like 

speeding down that small road; like seeing a glimpse of those cars 

through the shrubs outside our house that father said he liked best about this place when we’d bought it 

i hate them, i’d think 

but through them still the truth prevailed and i tasted that adolescent freedom just like i 

tasted mothers lipstick. just like i imagined applying this red color in that small mirror i sometimes 

saw mother use when you drove us to the park on cool summer nights. do you remember that? 

sometimes i don’t. sometimes i only remember your anger

anyways, i’d think of swerving down our graveled road at obscene speeds smacking my plump 

lips together (see, i was much more grown in this fantasy) driving and applying 

i’d think; that’s true freedom. to open the door to death yourself for the sheer fun of it 

for the sheer feeling of flying and tasting that cosmetic chemically sweetness that came out sour 

when you puckered your lips just so 

i’d think; that is where i will go, when i am as tall as the hedges, when i am taller than even you