Voyeur
Goulet
Posts: 918
My mom tries on red dresses,
blue dresses, plaid dresses,
black dresses with no back, as I
sit underneath a rack of the
horrible things. They smell
stale and old, and make my throat dry.
My brother wanders in
and out of the aisles;
his feet rustling on the faded carpet, picking up static.
I tie my shoe laces over and over –
one loop
two loop
cross and pull.
And yesterday at the neighbor’s house; my brother
asking for a “swanch.”
“Sand-wich,” Mrs. Green corrected, as I lagged behind
because I am the shy one.
I wipe some dirt off my green Converse shoes,
and watch as a lady with platinum blond
hair twirls her dress in a mirror.
blue dresses, plaid dresses,
black dresses with no back, as I
sit underneath a rack of the
horrible things. They smell
stale and old, and make my throat dry.
My brother wanders in
and out of the aisles;
his feet rustling on the faded carpet, picking up static.
I tie my shoe laces over and over –
one loop
two loop
cross and pull.
And yesterday at the neighbor’s house; my brother
asking for a “swanch.”
“Sand-wich,” Mrs. Green corrected, as I lagged behind
because I am the shy one.
I wipe some dirt off my green Converse shoes,
and watch as a lady with platinum blond
hair twirls her dress in a mirror.
Post edited by Unknown User on
0
Comments
Most of the time, when I write stuff... it has to sound exaggerated (whether it is or not) for me to think it's worth sharing... Maybe it's because my brain cant comprehend the fact that normal, everyday events can be just as tragic as rare occurances.