Trashy Bitch Change-Up

So forgotten, or maybe forced
out of the mind—Chica doesn’t know how
they see her. She’s always blind
sighted, in some ways, by men’s behavior.
Her first memory of this was made
when she was a small child melting broken
crayons on the aluminum garbage can lid
beside of her family’s home. That was the day
home became more broken than any other word
she had learned in her short little life. Each fragment
of crayon changed from solid to a liquid grace
harmonizing each color swirling
in a pretty frenzy of broken
on that receptacle for unwanted things. Later, the word
garbage was thrown around as if had become her
name. Little white girl running with dogs
in every shade of human flesh,
having been predestined to read
markings left on trash cans. She has no means of self-
identification. Where does this road stop? Her dad said,
“Later. It’s your mother’s fault.” The family dog, Lady,
followed him into the metallic green Chevy Nova he promised
to her when she was old enough to drive. Slamming the door,
he didn’t look back. She never saw the car or the dog
again. His eyes offered no tears for his little girl
who dressed like a boy in an unconscious attempt
to give Daddy the son he wanted. That day he had
swore to show her how
to throw a curve ball. Chica never learned to pitch
any sort of ball. Indifference is a cruel
rule of order. Thirty years later, she still has no
car of her own. She’s out grown her baseball cleats
which sit quietly in a box marked “old
shit” her cat likes to sleep on.




  1. You always paint such an interesting portrait from you past experiences….another strong write.

  2. Reblogged this on disdainfulbeauty.

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