to tie my shoe.
The yellow spots don't go away.
Mom's soft voice is around me, now.
She's sorry. I love her more than anything.
My t-shirt is sticking to my back.
She takes it off. Some kind of cream.
It stings.
I can take it. I should get it. I'm awful.
It kind of scratches in my mushy brain.
Like spiders with needle feet.
My mouth tastes like grunt.
I'm getting sweaty stinky.
Mom doesn't care. But she has to cook.
I wish I was a person. All grown up.
It would be so neat. Not to think about things.
I could kiss my boys.
Please, God, tell him that I love him.
I know I'm dirty and talk too much. Little son-of-a-bitch.
But I forget. But I'll be smart some day, like my brother.
I want my dream to be real, bad.
I think about it all the time. Do dead people have dreams?
I wish, I wish, I wish. So hard.
I don't like waking up. He doesn't love me.
He's so tall and strong, he's the sun.
Voice like deep rocks.
I hear him snoring at nights. Then I go to sleep with the ocean.
Tonight, I'll imagine I own a spaceship.
And fly to the sun.
Copyright 2000 DP McClellan
