My mother was from a very different culture than me.
I missed my origins of family.
She would sit in her car for hours in our small garage with her purse on her-lap.Then she would threaten me legally, before dinner. We were a middle class family, near the ocean; where dad was hardly ever home. Mom’s favorite color is pink.
A gun loaded in that purse. I wondered how many bullets. or if it were the color pink.
After dinner; I did the dishes; and even when Dad was alive. I sat next to her; a chair cushion four feet away. If I forgot; she called me to her. We held hands in the fingertips; like lovers; she told me she needed it because she was raped once. But not by dad.
Another time when I was in the bathroom just gotten off the toilet, I saw her naked; and she had a dick. I was fifteen, and I thought I had locked the door; as she walked toward me, naked. She molested me then to keep me from speaking. I thought about the color pink; more. If I’d been a girl it might have been different. I was as pretty as one; just a little bit less pretty than my own sister; the most beautiful of them-all. When I closed my eyes I was married to her brother. More hand-holding.
I could have become uncontrollable sick. Instead I became the shooter. Her gun in her purse, as we held hands; taught me how to shoot. perfect.\
Now you dream about me: The Shooter.
I know the gun was pink.
cited in shared name: shooter (movie).
My favorite sport is soccer!
theme: try me.
theme music citation: vanilla ice ice baby
I’d sea it in the kitchen in her open purse. A nice note for me with my lunch.