Hysterical letters to my sanity

born pretty and clueless

you are born pretty and clueless. Your mother was crying out to hers, and your father had his sweat ripened head held against the metal railings of the bed. You are born to humans, nothing more or less.
You are young and dirty, your nails are forcibly cut and washed as if defiant to cleanliness.
Your aunts and uncles are seen like the hero's of stories, so you scrape through boxes of childhood junk, flip through photo albums and find T-shirt's loosely resembling the ones they wore in their youth. You dislike the things other people are disliking while you take interest in what you feel makes you different and unique, and the burden of being all alone never leaves. You want to grow up but you also just a little bit want to be young again, young enough that you get carried in from the car, and tucked into bed, you can't quite recall the night those stopped.
You cut your hair for the first time by yourself at 3, scolded and punished but nonetheless you do it again at 13, and 23, fuck your hair. You are a well prepared young soul, you will never make the mistakes you watched unfold like grisly car wrecks, or in the movies as warning signals to all who watch, except you will because like the parents you were born to, you're human. You will die pretty and clueless, your body meeting earth like dead plants taking root again, the beetles and birds will eat your flesh and somewhere a mother covers her child's eyes, that innocence shouldn't see your waste, despite its purity, it is not clean.