She catches her hair in a brush every morning,
and watches strands she’ll miss
float to her feet, where they may hang
for the rest of the day, not letting go yet.
She’ll pick them off, one by one, and watch them drift
away to catch on to someone else, be drug along
to see sights they were never meant to see,
and hear things she would never have said.

She keeps her lips closed throughout the day,
never speaking unless asked, avoiding eye
contact with pretty faces, pretty mouths
saying words she’s heard in movies, and once
from my father. She imagines they go home and
see their parents fighting, beating, screaming,
and crying, but they sit
with their families at dinner tables--
study, read, play with little brothers.
From the way they speak, shouldn’t someone be
hurting them? From the way they yell,
shouldn’t someone be yelling back?

The world has engulfed its morals around material
items, and Bonnie has too. She still relies on childhood
fantasies, that family is always what it appears
on the outside looking in; but, I’ve realized that family
is not the street we live on, the car we drive, the home
we reside, and all the quiet girls, who do well in school,
who are obedient and respectful, and who never
say more than what is seemingly appropriate,
are always the broken ones.

01/17/2006

Author's Note: Okay, I kind of got the idea for the title from seeing Dematerializing - Bonnie J Adams...so I suppose I owe her a thanks. Thank you Bonnie, but don't worry, the Bonnie here is not based after you.

Posted on 01/17/2006
Copyright © 2010 Rachel C Johnson