This one goes out to you, ‘Ria.
Your kids are really beautiful. Hazel eyes, cinnamon skin. God was merciful, their manners are far from pitiful. They hide, they don’t run. Coy butterflies hiding under the leaves when they see the sun. It’s no fun. With me I can see their smiles are free. Around you, they play dead. Sis, no wonder your kids love Warheads. They had to suck your sour titties. Now they sit still with lemons in their mouths smiling pretty.
“Tell Ms. Saima what we did today,” you say, all gay.
‘Ms.’? I didn’t know I was teaching eighth grade.
“We just biked eight miles,” they all line up like nutcrackers and smile.
Cool! Fuck that, bike a mile up my asshole ASAP!
It’s truly a shame how I see you feign by using your kids to live up to a good name. Spending money to take us somewhere sunny while your eyes are still runny from being too cunning. You were a bigger mess than me. Now you’re stepping in my face, invading my space, saying you’ll help me. Irreparable. Oh, you’re a helper? That’s a heart-melter. Hysterical. Acting like you’re not begging for shelter. Like your broken heart isn’t the reason you falter.
White sister with the Lily shirt, ugly slippers. Gold digger. Hubby looks like a pig, it figures. Jealousy turned you hungry only to one-up me. You’re over 30. Get some sleep bitch, it’s too early, you’re dirty. You make your kids knock at my door. Bitch you were bribing me with alcohol and calling me a whore. You push your kids to me like I’m their aunty. But you don’t want me. You come to taunt me. Because you know you can’t haunt me.
This is me being real, being blatant. Bitch, you’re ignorant, this isn’t a competition. I’m tired, I’m angry that we’re in a restaurant at this moment and you still have to throw a performance. The little boy’s making an owl noise, you’re trying to make him sing, but it’s not his choice. Dad’s still covering the bill honey, just focus on your husband and be a good mummy.
You blow up dad’s phone; I never got a text. You stalk me though, you want the info, you are OBSESSED. We know that you have daddy issues. I have them big, too. I’m fucked up. But I don’t try to be better than you.
“Go give Papa a hug!” “Go show papa you can read!” “Right papa, right papa!”
You’re a psychologist and you still need therapy!
Your children are angels and I love them. They are the only things that make you genuine. Sweet voices mellifluously snaking through my heart, I learn from their little minds. I love hearing their jokes or how they love to spend their time. They tell me about their cooking talents and what they’d make for me. Their voices chime like bells, undoubtedly raised well. They told me that they’re proud they don’t burn under the sun. We are the same blood you were ashamed of, cunt.