BRUISED
by Quincy Young
Prologue (or really how it all ends)
TINY VODKA MELODRAMA
You told me that you never wanted to be a mother.
It was 2:30 in the morning.
I sat up in bed, half dreaming of the ocean and
half tuned in to the reality you brought me in.
You cried about a lover or an abortion or both.
I really couldn’t comprehend.
I tried my best to sooth, to hush.
You complained of a headache and not sleeping.
I suggested you take a sleeping pill.
You took fourteen
and chased them down with vodka.
Reality, #1 THE BODY CATASTROPHE
(her story)
Its funny how girls can sometimes disappear and no one seems to notice.
Morning. Fifty sit-ups. Breakfast. Water, three slices of apple,
and two pink laxatives.
This is not my body.
I started to disappear the night I first leaked. Red.
Spotted sheets a constant reminder of why mama
put me on the pill cause-
“All we need is another mutha fucking mouth to feed up in here.”
I still take those pills even though I stopped leaking a month ago.
In class I nibble on pieces of paper to numb my hunger pains and
I notice how beautiful some of the other girls have become with
their breast and their hips, they constantly re-apply cherry flavored
lip gloss and all the boys fall over themselves when these girls
leave the room.
Lunch. Water, six raisons, two jelly beans-rootbeer flavored (yummy)
and diet Pepsi.
Reality, #2 DRIVING AFTER THE CLUB
(her son’s rebellion)
I’m in the back seat of his mother’s car. Numb from all the cocaine.
(trust fund money spent wisely) there is glitter on my lashes.
She fixes her lipstick in the review mirror then pouts at her reflection.
And I’m suddenly so very jealous of her and-
(he drives faster) past the lake with the bodies. Past
the meth lab next door to the elementary school. Past
the wall with that awful Aztec mural. Past
the men cruising boy prostitutes. Past
the X rated movie theater showing gay porn across from the Russian family deli. Past
the club where River Phoenix died. Past
the half dressed girls stumbling into limos.
(faster)
past the transvestites.
rockstars.
strung-out models.
runaways.
twenty-four hour laundry mats.
donut shops.
taco stands.
twenty-four hour grocery stores where
the employees pimp themselves.
(faster)
To our dealers house further down on Sunset Blvd.
There will be no sleep tonight.
COMMERCIAL BREAK
YOUR ICON
Shudder to think what I might be if your human lips had never touched my skin.
Its because of that first kiss that red is the color of your sin.
Shudder to think what my reputation might be if it had been written that Snow White
bit into a pear or a peach or heaven forbid a plum instead of my precious meat.
I am the American Dream. You did this to me. You put me on this pedestal.
Put me in your scripture, your fiction and your fantasy.
You applaud your children when they damn near drown themselves bobbing for me
during your holiday games.
“The apple of your eye”
Your “Big Apple”
“As American as apple pie”
now worship me.
COMMERCIAL BREAK
TALLULAH
“My father warned me about men and booze but he
never said anything about women and cocaine”
Tallulah Bankhead
Fingertips stained like dirty vanilla, too many cigarettes
left you with that slow sexy drawl. You got a suitcase full
of pills. Those uppers, those downers and those all so needed
in-betweens. Got a man uptown to deliver what no doctor can
prescribe. Got a lady downtown to scratch at that itch no man
can ever reach.
You walk in wearing Chanel. Simple and black. Smoky
eyes wide, your wired and ready. Kiss me in my mouth.
Your tongue taste like gin. You whisper “Darling, fix
me something stiff.” you touch me between my legs. I am
your sycophant now. Your doormat I am. You drink too
much bourbon. Gossip rather loudly about “so and so”, raise
your dress high above your thighs then complain of the heat.
With a slight waive of your hand you motion me to the
ladies room. I follow. We make love. Then you leave me a
mess on the bathroom floor.
Why?
Because you can.
Because you are.
Because you always will be.
Dirty Vanilla.
Tallulah, forever.
Reality, #3 IKEA, REVISITED
(HIS MELODRAMA)
I never wanted to come here with you. Here, this place. Mass produced furniture.
Couples holding hands, their newly ringed fingers touching at plush rugs.
You hold my hand way too tight. I smile way too wide at everyone, everything.
I hate it here, smells like they sprayed too much “new” smell. How unfortunate that
these recliners cant possibly know the beer stains to come, these love-seats don’t
realize the violence they’ll soon witness. You pull me like I’m a child to a mock
bedroom, perfectly matching pieces in this fake square room. You make inappropriate
remarks about fucking me on that perfectly made bed. I lower my head and imagine
stabbing you while you sleep on that same perfectly made bed. I hate it here. Pretending
to be normal, like we fit in. Here, amongst these couples with their concrete grins, and
their perfectly planed futures, that revolve around the prospect of having perfectly fat babies.
(I loved you once.)
Reality,#4 PILLS AND PALM TREE’S
(2:00 A.M. Before The Phone Call)
She’s a mother of 3. Her purse full.
Of crayons. Chewable grape flavored aspirin.
Grey contact lenses. A prescription for Vicadin.
Receipts from Macy*s and pink Lancome eye shadow.
She sits and waits. For a doctor with a habit.
For a prescription. For more pills.
For a pain that no longer exist.
Her youngest reaches out for her nipple.
She pushes tiny fingers away. Closes her eyes.
And dreams of fish.
She drives faster and fantasizes about life with a stranger.
Road construction ahead.
Must remember to buy pads.
Must remember to sign permission slip for a trip to the Getty.
Love songs on the radio. Reminding her
of lawyer husband working late, again.
Lonely.
Kids in bed. Tequila Sunrise in hand.
Naked. Bedroom curtains wide open.
Palm Tree’s outside seem to dance.
Must remember to send out Christmas Cards.
To take Trina to the orthodontist.
To refill prescriptions.
Epilogue 1996
(The Apple Doesn’t Fall Far From The Tree)
Part 1
*In a bathroom with blue walls.
I washed my hair several times to remove the smell of bad sex.
Bad sex and cigarette smoke.
I can still taste you in my mouth. Did you mean to linger?
I keep looking at my reflection in my bathroom mirror. I think
I look like my father, except for the lips. I think I have my mother’s lips.
I place a towel on the floor. I kneel down in front of the toilet, and
I try to throw you up.
Part 2
* In an apartment of a junky, his actress girlfriend and a blonde guy whose never there.
He’s in the shower. He’s shaking. His eyes are closed. His ears are ringing.
She’s in the living room taking hits off of her favorite bong. She doesn’t hide
his needles anymore cause she’s in love. She has a fitting at noon for a Tom Cruise
film. She needs more coke. She picks up the phone. He passes out in the shower.
Part 3
* At a trendy
store/café on
At lunch I pretend to eat a salad with low fat dressing trying my best to avoid the eye of the anorexic actress sitting one table away from me. She makes me nervous with her surgically
enhanced lips and her stringy blonde hair. Latter, she tries on several different pairs of jeans as I go through the motions to help her, smiling occasionally and thinking of the commission I’ll make and the Christian Dior sunglasses I have been eyeing for weeks.
Part 4
* At a party in the Hollywood Hills.
She introduces me to all her famous friends. She wants to do more blow. We accidently walk in on the latest pop sensation going down on another girl. They ignore us for a moment but then decide not to pass up on free coke.
I wake up next to this actor from England. He tries to fuck me but his dick wont get hard. He buys me breakfast and we exchange email addresses.
I’m late for work.