She was your little girl.
The sunlight would shine off her golden head
as she skipped down the garden path.
She wore a pink dress.

She was your inspiration.
Her inquisitive manner, the way she'd never let up
unill you had answerd her questions.
She wore a pink dress.

She was your mental restriction.
The way she'd find that which was hidden under the cushions,
and bring it out for your mother to see.
Almost aggravting, every single day;
She woke a pink dress.

She was your biggest worry.
The mud puddles, the boys at school,
the old ladies peering out of their windows
would watch her, plot against her, while
She wore a pink dress.

She was your only fear.
Her large brown eyes would peer up at you as you walked in late.
The small nose on her precious face would turn at the smell of the alcohol.
And the tears would run down her face onto her dress.
She wore a pink dress.

She was the only stability to you.
But you had to do it, didn't you?
The life you wrung out of her frail little body was your rock.
And now where is she?
She, who wore a pink dress.

She sleeps with the maggots now.
Underneath the flowers she used to bring you,
underneath the sidewalks she once skipped along to see you.
She's there, lying in her satin lined coffin.
She's wearing a pink dress.

11/08/2004

Author's Note: I hate you.

Posted on 11/09/2004
Copyright © 2024 Barbara Griffith