lemon lady.

if you ever wanted a child to love you, then you should just go sit and hide in the closet for three or four hours. they will get down on their knees and pray for you to return. that child would turn you into god. lonely children probably wrote the bible.

a blind man once told me i was walking in the wrong direction, that the big bad wolf was on the other side. i pitied the blind man because it was the chicken who was on the other side, not the wolf. (but then i didn't know
where the big bad wolf
was, so i hid in a brick house.)

you gave me a cavity rather than a heart inside of a chest. i tried watering the soil, but you can't grow anything in infertile soil. that's not how the frankenstein monster was grown. ("that's because he was created" you'd tell
me, but i'd always pretend
there was beewax in my ears.)

soap operas were always on when you came over, and you would watch them with me. the man would always pull the woman into his strong arms, and his hands would always wander like some sultry thing under her shirt and past the waistband of her pencil skirt (her legs were always shiny and slender) and i would try to reenact their scene but you would always stop me. (i guess you can't meet the other person
halfway if they take the detour.)

"is it because she has better legs" i would ask. but you would just kiss my fingertips and call me your lemon lady. then i'd ask what that means, but you would  just smile and i can smell your toothpaste. secretly, that is good enough for me.
(maybe you can,
if you take the
detour with them.)