Molly

I could never hate you even on the night you came to rescue me in your comfortable shoes; your concerned face lined with anger and fear.

Pushing into the lounge of the suburban house you grabbed the wig from my head, your rough hand wrapped in full around the stick of my arm.

“Wipe that off your face” you shouted over and over; swearing at the other girls and boys, elbowing them out of the way.  I was crying, couldn’t walk, near-naked, body shining in the light of the streetlamps outside.

In the car you were silent and I shivering.  You wanted to share the interrogation and shame with my mother.  

You did not understand.  They knew what I was before I knew.  I tailed them to their house the first time, the tall ones in heels, bright, luminous.  I begged them to let me in.  Begged to be changed.  They knew what you will never let yourself know.  The thing you think of as home is only a chrysalis.

From me to become I know I will destroy you and this protective shell, split you open then fly beyond.

As I put on my makeup again I am sorry.