Pink Predictable Contradictions

20 10 2010

She with the punk pink hair types, clicks, and smiles in the dimly lit cafe. Her acceptance is complete with a smile and bubble pop of sour apple gum. A bookmark with a modern Madonna with machine guns jutting from her breasts marks the page where she finished reading about the genocide in Rwanda. On embossed stationary, she scribbles invitations to an 8th grade fundraiser for a trip to Charleston. Southern history bores her. The prospect of touring graveyards and slave markets for one sweaty week in June arouses a sigh of disgust. Privilege and predictability preside over her life like a steepled church. Such reflections and simple responsibilities cause her eyes to droop.

“Sensi should sip this tea,” whispers the cat with feathers. On a levitating ottoman, she rests like a piece of Swiss cheese. Bullet holes define her skin and within their bright darkness lie silent mouths—closed crimson lips ready to speak within the damaged body. Receiving the warm porcelain, her fingers tingle and the liquid slips within her. Hymns echo from the mouth on the tail of the cat while her mouths consume the resonating halleluiahs. “Saints do not sit,” chants the cat with feathers as he passes her by for a little black boy wearing pale pink ballet slippers. This boy clothed in chains stands listlessly looking up as the cat waters the boy’s feet.

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