Skeletons in the Closet

Skeletons in the Closet

Dear mama’s in general, please don’t fall over each other putting your shoes on, or joking with each other as you smash social regimes…

I am watching Rebel Cheer Squad and I had the thought that I wanted to share something to jeer.

My mother disciplined me by hitting me with clothes hanged. Some metal, some plastic. The blows were so fast and strong you could hear the sickening “whoosh” when it struck my arms flying up trying to cover my 8-year old tear streaked face.

Daddy was there to supervise, and my older sister Sabrina was off doing her own thing with one of her boyfriends.

I didn’t fell like a strong superhero when my shocked face contorted in incredulity at the ugly red welts that rose from my arms.

The crack of thunder matched what my eyes searched for when it found the plastic hammer cracked in half.

I felt like just a piece of meat for a monster strong enough to wield an imperfect implement of torture that failed under the full brunt of her labor pains.

That is why I really love shopping, and clothes, and sharing secret smiles with the staff when I see a cluttere store because even though I earnt a fancy degree from Harvard, I also worked at Sears when my mental trauma kept me isolated from prying eyes.

My mother and father and sister are pedophiles because they equate pleasure from my pain. It doesn’t matter if a child feels pleasure or pain during the experience, just that the expression of terror has to be “just right”

When I get triggered by happy perfect family scenes, or when a police officer tells me he’s not a taxi service after getting a ticket like a gentleman, I would rather burn the American Flag and myself with it in protest to remind them that my fire will last long after theirs keep them warm at night.

Coveting beautiful young boys with naked desire will result in those clothed with the American-born Chinese ideal of good and proper parenthood are defined by this work as the enabling monsters as they have been propped up to be…