Hair — stringy, slimy, putridly brown, slides across
Clotted cream dotted with cherry bits — then drips down
Hind to wasteland of waistband; doughy, disordered.
Nice ones say she’s cute;
Eyes averted from bulbous belly.
Dumb ones say she’s sweet,
Content in oblivious cheek.
House shudders, dreading her return. Bits of fabric
Peel away from skin, dangle, escape to rain-soaked
Pavement. Wreck doesn’t rev, screeches and shrieks instead.
Folks say she’s special.
Every night, she prays they‘re right.
Doubts corrupt her mind,
Etching black marks upon her soul.