Tea that was once imaginary in the *** is tilted into her gilded, delicate cup.
Thin, like a butterfly's wing, the handle will crumble if pressure is applied.
"Thank you," she whispers like a lovely little lady to her host, a giant stuffed rabbit.
He is missing a button eye and fluff is foaming out of one of his ear holes.
He nods, and rips a stitch turning away to greet another guest. Her eyes widen.
Fast forward to tye dye and LSD. She is in the mud, covered in rain and ****** fluids,
in a crowd of strangers-turned soul mates, swaying in the vibrations of guitar strings,
thumping palms and fists against rapidly disappearing ground that is no longer solid,
but liquid, Earth, and soon it will all errode until the molten metal core is revealed
and then
all will be one.
Rewind a few lifetimes, pause.
Others are watching from outside a glass cage.
She is inside, curious, observing the observers though aware of why they stare.
She has a growth on her shoulder, a cyst the size of a sister,
a mini sibling not fully right or grown.
She is a freak for these onlookers, it is her job, duty and fate.
They laugh and grimace as a spot light focuses on her form(s).
She feels numb to the gaiety and exploitation, absent from the popcorn grins
and sticky cotton candy fingers leaving blue prints on her window looking in, so she can not look out.
Record,
her children all know the moments of her past, the past she never can remember because it wasn't fully her,
but they feel it, in their hair, and their nails and their dreams
that their are their mother's problem.