12.21.2008

Confession #342A

There's a girl who's recently single
her mother died in childbirth.
Ask her about it and she'll tell you
that it's her fault and she'll make it right
by not letting her mother down.
Some people really fall for that sappy stuff.

She'll show you an old photo
terribly Eighties, with feathered hair
and sci-fi eye make-up
across a tacky Sears portrait background.
That's the one she says is best.
She says her mother was beautiful
inside and out, and she's partially right
but not to the degree she claims
and not in either category specifically.
And between the two generations
of magnified X-chromosomes
there's not a lick of resemblance
though she'll tell you otherwise.

In fact, she's downright ugly.
Looks like she was dropped
from a baseball bat tree
and, well, you know the rest
or maybe it was Colonel Mustard
in the Conservatory with the Lead Pipe
and just what exactly is a conservatory anyway
if you don't mind me asking, Parker Brothers?
Regardless, the outcome's the same:
the puffed cheeks, the pug nose
the beady eyes lodged deep in her head
and surrounded by circles, the long brittle hair
dry from malnutrition, the sallow skin
that looks like it bruises at the slightest touch.
I could go on, but it's turning my stomach.

And I'm sure I'm not the only one.

So here I am, picking apart this poor girl
bit by bit, saying she needs worse than me to let go
of the past, claiming her mother was mediocre
and she is far less, admitting cold-heartedly
that I see no redeeming qualities in the bloodline
and could care less if the gene pool is denied
any further contributions from that source.
Here I am, blatantly playing the cruelest card
and not caring.

But I know just where that puts me in
the eyes of her Creator.

And when I burn in Hell (no ifs about it)
there won't be as many angry hymens
nor dejected friends, holy roller Fathers
pointing fingers and accusing me of
sodomy, covetousness, blasphemy
respectively
as you'd so quickly assume, dear friend.
There will simply be that bad picture
of that perfect mother who gave her life
in the name of her daughter
whose beauty I ignore
but will learn to love
while roasting.

There's comfort in knowing what's in store.

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