pixie

i splash around in watercolours.
i was born in a crossfire hurricane
she sits cross legged, her skinny legs like a puzzle of flesh before her, leaning against the side of the bed, facing the double bevelled glass doors through which the morning sun flows, showering this little room in fragments of broken light. dressed in a flimsy nightgown stained with bleach and time with her short angry hair protruding in dangerous spikes, my mother has a haphazard look about her, as if her being was sketched quickly and thoughtlessly by the hand of God. yet, there is something meticulous and deliberate in the way she is holding her cracked grey compact mirror up to her face, inspecting her skin with such intense concentration that the lines of her forehead crease in protest. the room is heavy and still from the heat of the sun but she does not sweat. she never sweats. there is an abandoned dunhill left to burn in the pale blue and white china ashtray beside her and a steady stream of dirty smoke curls around her, dancing against the light.