Lovely little doll, daughter, sitting on the velvet couch. the daughter with the dark eyes sitting there digesting every action. (“but she’s so quiet!”) never spoke unless spoken to. Oh what a good little fucking angel I was. wanting to spit in the face of authority that shrunk my insides, took the butterflies of life and spit out creeping cockroaches. the authority always taking my heart.
the little anorexic-looking ballet girl dressed the way Mom intended at age 9,10,11,12, 13. doing/saying (mostly) what was expected of me. swallowing it all – chocking. Oh what a fucking little angel in pink, wishing to explode, to express those untold words, worlds that I could barely keep under my tongue. Oh what an up roar when I wore men’s clothes: “I thought I had a daugher!”
Oh and my anger/upset feelings are of no concern, as a matter of fact I was told to “be quiet,” as I always am if I express any emotion that is too excited. (what a moody little girl at age 32.) just medium emotions here, we don’t do any extreme of emotion that would be too… eh, extreme. that would be having an opinion, that would mean I have one, that I matter, that I think – have the gaul to think I matter, to exist. to exist as something other than a play doll that came from my mother’s womb. that would mean I do more than what I am told, that would mean I think! thinking would make me a person who reasons, who has butterflies in her tummy for things that maybe matter to me. that have personal symbolization. I’d be human! I’d err. I’d also kick, scream, laugh, cry, reel, fuck, breathe. I’d be a puzzle to unravel and that would mean I was more than a doll, dressed like a ballerina, twirling when you wind the music box