Free Entry 1, Week 1

"Red, Red"

Dear Diary,
This shall be the final time
I ever reference you by name or trait.

He understands love, he says,
but it is the kind shared between a failed poet
and his forgettable words,
like a stage mother who tortures her daughter,
a beauty queen--
a stage mother who tortures a poor child
with the cheers of pedophiles
and the promise of chocolate candies
then cries on national television,
cries through the static on channel five,
We just want our baby home.
Is there anything more barbaric?

Despite the embarrassment I suffer
from your mere existence,
which paints my face red, red--
much like a marble floor stained
from the juice of cherries murdered
between the toes of madmen
and saints--red, red,
(despite the embarrassment,)
I do not cry for you through static,
though I am the one
who gives you meaning and purpose.
It is not murder, I contend,
but I am forced to make a choice,
like a woman drowned in unwanted placenta,
like a woman who must make a decision
between facing assassins and
freeing herself from the bonds of maternity
or having herself ripped apart
and duplicated (though only partially).
Is there anything more horrific?

He insists upon disclosure, creativity,
and sophistication;
therefore, I see no alternative.
You and I must remain anonymous to the other;
we cannot become aquaintances.
Please do not blame yourself
or cry through the static on channel five.
It isn't you; it was never you.

Dear Diary,
It's me.
It will always
be me.