And she doesn't want to press charges, my yellow cousin - ghost of a gypsy. Drunk off the wine of pressed grapes, repressed screams of sun-shriveled raisins and their dreams interrupted by a manhood deferred. Will she ever sober? Or will they keep handing her glasses overflowing with the burden of knowing.
I never knew. Never knew it could harm me, the ghost of a little girl in the desolate mansion of my manhood. I'm a man now. And then.. I remember, that I have been charged one million volts of change.
Will the ghost of that little girl ever meet my little girl? She's one now she must have been three then, maybe four. She's eighteen now, I'm 25 now, I must have been twelve then. My mother said he was in his 30's and she's now pressing charges, although she's been indited, and I can't blame her. I can't calm her, I want to calm her. I want to call him names, but only mine seems to fit.
C'mon let's see if it fits. Two little boys with a magic marker marked her and it won't come out. "They put it in me!" "No he didn't, what are you talking about? It's not permanent. It'll come out when you wash it." Damn maybe it was permanent. I can't forget. And I hope she doesn't remember. Maybe magic marked her.
Lord I hope he don't pull no dead rabbits out of that hat, what you gonna do then? And what was Mary's story? The story of a little girl with a brother and a couch. She's got a brother, a couch, a sister locked in her bedroom, and a mother on vacation. Lord, don't let her fall asleep.
Her brother's got keys to her dreams. He keeps them on a chain that now cuffs his wrists together. Mummy doesn't believe he did it. But he's left footprints on the insides of his sister's eyelids, and they've learned to walk without him and haunt her daily prayers. And if you rub your fingers ever so softly on her inner thigh, she'll stop you. Having branded your fingertips with the footprints of her brother, the disbelief of her mother, and her sister who called her a slut for sleeping.
Lord, I've kno
