Sus

(After much deliberation, I told her the truth. It will not be easier on me now. I do not feel lightened of the burden, now. I feel sheltered by the shade of what is impending.)

I was walking around in the plaza today, and I looked at all the young faces wearing the cliched expressions on the young heads of people older by age than me. They walked around, either holding on, sometimes unleashed, to the pinkish pets they farrowed; or, caressing their not-so-newly-pregnant uterus beneath their bellies, beneath their taut lycra tee-shirts, spilling from their ugly creased cotton cream-vomit-coloured beach pants; or, grunting after their wives they treat as siblings in crimes of stolid abberation.

I wondered, scornfully, "why do they look happy?" Or rather, "why do they look so stupidly happy?" Maybe we tend to over-complicate little things too much.

(Maybe, I don't need to know that you belong to me. I just need to belong to you. I always say that the truth is over-rated but who doesn't want to live happily ever after?)

The little girl with her pony tail, in white barbie tee-shirt and pink barbie pants, talking loudly on her proud mother's mobile phone to her father who may be out fucking some other woman at the hour before this, will grow up to be like who? Her mother soon squeals at her to finish up the food.

(Who did I grow up to be like? It's been a long time since I heard anyone mumble "get a life". It is an impossible dream.)

Take your baby dolls and hang them by the umbilical cords you fed them with. It should be easier than trying to smother them with your half-hearted dedication. It should be easier than having to buy them two dozens of spectacles before they turn 21.

You won't look like barbies anymore, child brides. Buy a strip of pork lard but at least deep fry it just before you lap it up, pigs.