The lady in the red hair (and sometimes brown and sometimes black) laying claim to curls she doesn’t have, a son of a decade and a cup full of bitter twisted pain
“cuz I’m arrogant, I’m proud so I’ll make it out that my man and my drinks, and my clothes are somehow raw things to do”
“I’ll make myself a femme fatale and give a forced claim of the pain I was once forced to follow as my moral guide, and go against it, no trash it at every turn”
She tries so desperately to fit into a movie or a reality show, one a few decades old, one she watched on TV one night when she was nine. One she should not have been watching as a nine year old
as her brother screamed in the background at her dad and her mom and stormed out to kill in an evil war. She walked a path that seemed wild but was silly. She walked a path that hurt. That laughed at her and seemed like abuse now, on her
and by her
She took red haired pictures at the beach, for her it was such a privileged thing to do, she stole privilege and tried to force it into her muted showy life. When she is old she will have stories to tell. So will all of us.