(no subject)
I can't be Mariana van Zeller.
I can't live life behind the video camera
with the Oxycontin junkie in the frame
saying, "This is where my wife's face
turned blue. I sleep on her side of the bed now."
Hushed by empathic heartbreak
scripting answers with questions
making the news.
I don't know what's been hardest
so far: the man crying into my recorder
about how much he wanted to die
or the board rooms and court houses
where the suited men wondering
what the hell I was doing there
weren't swayed by patent high heels and magazine dreams
as they had swayed me when I read The Bell Jar.
I forgot she goes mad for the second half of that book.
All I really want is to be somebody's doll.
My dad likes to say he's surprised
I ever learned to walk since he carried me
everywhere in his arms so long. But I walked away
a year ago and never called home. They never called
me anything when I made the expected A's as a kid.
Just "skinny mini" and "such pretty hair..."
It falls out in small clumps these days as I take
to the collegiate bunkers. I'm living the dream
and dreaming of living again when it's over.
Why can't I live somewhere without roaches
and spiders crawling along the walls and into
my infrequent dreams?
The puff piece article will go like this:
It turned out she wasn't fit for anything
but applying makeup and curating art
for the home she shares with a businessman
many years her senior. She loves him dearly
because that's an easy thing to do.
She will never interview Giorgio Armani
but wear a dress he designed.
When her husband unzips it one night
he'll find no one inside.
I can't live life behind the video camera
with the Oxycontin junkie in the frame
saying, "This is where my wife's face
turned blue. I sleep on her side of the bed now."
Hushed by empathic heartbreak
scripting answers with questions
making the news.
I don't know what's been hardest
so far: the man crying into my recorder
about how much he wanted to die
or the board rooms and court houses
where the suited men wondering
what the hell I was doing there
weren't swayed by patent high heels and magazine dreams
as they had swayed me when I read The Bell Jar.
I forgot she goes mad for the second half of that book.
All I really want is to be somebody's doll.
My dad likes to say he's surprised
I ever learned to walk since he carried me
everywhere in his arms so long. But I walked away
a year ago and never called home. They never called
me anything when I made the expected A's as a kid.
Just "skinny mini" and "such pretty hair..."
It falls out in small clumps these days as I take
to the collegiate bunkers. I'm living the dream
and dreaming of living again when it's over.
Why can't I live somewhere without roaches
and spiders crawling along the walls and into
my infrequent dreams?
The puff piece article will go like this:
It turned out she wasn't fit for anything
but applying makeup and curating art
for the home she shares with a businessman
many years her senior. She loves him dearly
because that's an easy thing to do.
She will never interview Giorgio Armani
but wear a dress he designed.
When her husband unzips it one night
he'll find no one inside.