photo credit: Heather Byington
You put me in your trophy case sandwiched between a signed baseball and a high school conference championship football. There I sat, collecting dust.
Clothes were strewn all over the bed; a constant struggle between trampy and attractive. I could never get it right. Not enough eyeliner so anyone would notice. No color on my lips. High necklines and long skirts. Push-up bras for you and minimizing bras for them. Eventually I’d wipe the makeup off and give up.
I was becoming a hermit. My pencils and paintbrushes hadn’t been used in years. I drowned my brain in TV instead of books; preferring the drama of reality television to my own life.
You called my cell phone, desk phone and the office at 5:05 to make sure I was on my way home. You didn’t need anything. You liked being in control. Maybe you were scared to lose me. You should’ve kept your secrets locked up in that trophy case or held them closer to your chest where I couldn’t trip over them. They shocked me back into the world like a defibrillator.
It would’ve gotten worse. I hope you don’t lock her away.