Smoke curls from the turquoise ash tray. Mother wets the cake mascara with a brush; short black bristles stiffly scrub the contents of the red pull-out case. It’s better than the match-stick trinket cabinet I made out of glue and bright felt, sequins and beads. Mother favors pastels, pinks, blues and the lavender that decorates my room. I tell her, embarrassed, as I am to enter Junior High, “I want to change my room, it’s too babyish”. I’ve hurt her feelings but the ceramic Lil’ Bo Peep and Three Lil’ Sheep are taken away, eyelashes meticulous, no clumps, cheeks rosy. I know sheep don’t have blue eyes. I like the charcoal lamb the best and sneak Mother’s eyeliner and roll my skirts high, once I am in the Girl’s Room at school. I draw better than Mother and my eyes are hard; dark circles with icy-blue shadow.
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I need a title…for this rough draft. Your comments are welcomed. Critique, too.
Find other original work about mothers or others at Read Write Poem.
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Damn, it feels good to post some creative work. It’s been a long, long time.
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