Why I'm Pale

please, it was my grandmother not me. its been her all along though i guess i'd really never know for sure since she has never touched my hands or ever braided my hair, but you have to believe me because i just know so you can't give me any of that praise because it was her all along, i've never ever been that flying source of light or the thing that saves you in your worst nightmares.
 she drank old school manhattans and always had a radio on. she forever kept things very clean, always spotless and my middle name is the same as her first. sometimes i pretend that this makes me a flower but only sometimes, when my brain will allow it. her finger-nails were always perfectly polished a deep, bright red.
sometimes in my bed late at night i'll fall asleep while writing, flush-cheeked, flashlight still lit and my legs vulnerable and unprotected outside any blankets. i drift off and forget about loose sheets of paper and almost always my pen, which leaks slowly while i sleep, the ink of which the very same deep bright red as her nails. and around the blankets in the morning light, on the sheets, the ink looks like bright tiny spots of blood but i promise its just ink but its the same difference, really. to me its the same difference but anyway never mind all that because i mention blood too often, at least that's what they'll probably say, all of them. 

maybe my grandmothers lacquered crimson fingernails could be mine, i wish they were mine. in those moments i use them to press into my wrist or my thigh and scratch hard up the rest of the skin, hard enough that drops of blood peer out at me just like the ink on the sheets. let me make my hands hers or i can trade my blood with the nail-polish-shade ink or i can clean and make things shine until i am that flower. but please. don't forget it was her first, without a glimpse of me or my heavy hurt-skin moments, it was my grandmother not me. my grandmother was a lily, was a femme-fetale she was hit by a car that was going backwards and her daughter gave birth to a maybe-lily with the backwards-moving crash stuck inside her blood, me cleaning until nothing is left. she was in a coma for awhile before the end, dreaming about something that no one can ever explain to me. they buried her with a radio. 


6 comments:

wiredwriter said...

excellent command of the language...work it

Kerry Giangrande said...

thank you for commenting darling:)

susie said...

your writing inspires me =)

rollerfink said...

you mention blood too often. and by that i mean this is absolutely great.

Stacey said...

beaut

THOM YOUNG said...

nice..thank you for your god section.. i guess that is a compliment..ha...no thanks really enjoy your writing