Wednesday 3/05/2008 12:47:00 AM

Pink jeans that were too tight. Barking, snarling dogs filling her bed. Pictures. Proof. She was. Is defective. Swimming in leaches. Wearing the parasites. It's a fashion statement.

I don't see what you do.

Blood lies. Pushes us apart. Pink jeans. From sears. Husky girl's size. Still too tight. Push down the pockets. Suck in her stomach. Grab the rivet with both hands. Find a way to fit.

Or be a child. Cry. Be scolded. Pick up the addiction early. Become an expert. Angry santa claus on the roof. Cookies on the ledge. Don't eat them.

It's just a trade off. One habit replaces the next. Food. Hate. Drug. Falling dominoes to stand up all over again. Little girls in fuzzy photographs. Unaware of the world. Or how much it wants of them.

Cheat sheets for daddy still don't take care of mom. She was young and unhappy then. She made me wear pink jeans that didn't fit. She wrote letter on her pillow to the men she'd lost and the children she'd aborted.

I used to try to imagine my other siblings. Or prteend they were in my place instad. The little truths of liars more than enough. Armless bartenders pouring loud beers for the deaf. It wouldn't matter. None of it is real until you're standing inside the pink jean that don't fit.

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