A Good Girl

 

I am a good girl.
I see my dentist twice a year and always look both ways before crossing the street,
and always use a napkin
and say please and thank you
and everyone says how good,
you are so good.
A very good girl they pat me on the head with words and nodding chins…
Sometimes I smile prettily and whirl away on my bicycle
or pop bubbles in  the air.
Sometimes I get bored of being good.
Sometimes I stand motionless in the backyard with the nice toys
and watch the moon all golden
until it starts to drip and I know that it is poison
it is drugs
and drugs are bad, bad, very bad for you
but I want to lick the droplets hanging from the branches 
in the trees all shadowbound
and glaring
like prisoners in wooden cages a long time ago.
There are eyes in the branches at night and they look at me
all strangey-scary
until I look back at them even scarier
and they close,
and I think they leave because I beat them at their own game…
And when I sing outside,
“three six nine the goose drank wine…”
“step on a crack and break your mothers back. Break her, break them all….”
I know they listen. 
So I sing them other songs
in other languages
and words from 
other
 places…
I am a good girl and when someone tells me a secret I keep it to myself
and sometimes if they are good too
I tell them mine
or show them….
and then the eyes in the trees watch carefully
until the showing is over
and the secret is safe once again,
for a while…
I am a good girl and the voices that tell me things
can’t stop talking to me
they even brave the sunlight sometimes
and I ask them for stories
 about the real bogeyman
and they say he isn’t a man at all
they say
(but you mustn’t tell)
that he is really, in the deepest deep down,
 a very good girl.
©jayetomas2015
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About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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