Lipstick Mountains Press
A boutique publisher of Arts & Letters & Ideas
by B. K. Smith
When I was very young, I watched over
my mother. At four or five, I already knew
the basics of taking care of, rather than being
cared for. I brought her saltine cracks
for her morning sickness and she packed
nothing for my morning snack. It was perfect.
It was at that tender age that I began locking
myself in the bathroom to play. I always
played there then. I practiced speaking
as I spoke to myself in the mirror. I sang
in quiet echoes so I couldn’t hear anything.
Moreover, they couldn’t hear me.
Come find me. Hurt me.
I lay down in the empty bathtub with all of my
toys and I sang to my dolls. I reflected in the mirror.
Someday I will be old enough to quietly leave.