The radio has a timer.
Her eyes will be open when the songs stop.
The girl abhors her deeply.
Convincing herself that she’s ugly.
A medley of frustrations and doubts.
The girls scream at each other.
No one hears an actual word.
He claims that she’s meaningless, history.
Her skin he never touched.
The wounded girl a liar, a temptress, a whore, the old song.
The red light on the radio.
The big blurred green numbers on the tv, the countdown into the night.
The snoring of the father, the sleepy whims of the mother, the withering.
Regrouping, dreaming awake, shadows all over her brain.
That’s the time when he calls on her.
When she misses the absorber the most. The attention.
The kindness. In the face of this hollering girl scapegoating her.
She cannot feel what she feels, nobody has ever pretended to love her.
Nobody had ever kissed her in public.
Held her hand. They hid her on a bench far away.
She comes home and the story never ends.
The gaze of the father judgemental, the hypocrite.
Oblivious the rest, all carrying the same burden, disguised differently.
And every time the girls see her she hears the word, he does not, and she embraces him.
“La Femme au perroquet” by Gustave Courbet (1819-1877)