Decent—
I hate that word.
My mother wants me to be decent
when all I really want to be,
what I actually am,
is loud,
color,
all mouth,
leather skirts,
and hoop earrings,
(an ode to the roundness of the sun)
nails in deep, dark red,
banging doors,
and laughing in all the wrong places.
She wants decent,
she means 'quiet'.
She means 'not anyone'.
She means 'forgettable'.
She means 'the kind you take home to momma'.
But, see—
I'm a Warhol pop art,
Kahlo brows,
that mouth in the Munch in a constant 'o',
the kind to put herself in an oven
and call it a day,
shirts cropped to their full potential,
belly button to the light,
black line drawn like a cat's,
maybe a little cherry on the lips
(the kind to kiss boys sweeter, dear).
But, okay, I love you—
and I will put on the heirloom pieces.
Just for tonight.