Sweeping the Attic

It was a mistake to go o the attic. I had mistaken the quiet for…what? resolution? That maybe they were gone?

Freddie is chittering, “titties! boobs!” Stupid little thing. We’re okay. He wings overhead as I hit the top of the stairs. I track him as he goes round three times and closes the door to the birdcage where he sleeps. Guess he just wanted me to know he was still there, but we’ve made our peace. He was the first one. When adolescence hit the cousins teased me about how my breasts were bigger than theirs. Freddie was born in that shame. Folded arms and baggy clothes, a sunken posture and a desire to be overlooked. Freddy chittering his sing song “boobies! titties! ta tas!” on and on. Shithead sleeping in his cage. ¬†He’s a tiny little thing.

Desire and the need to be pretty¬†doze. They’re a pair. They’re the Bonnie and Clyde of my imaginings. Used to mix up desirable and lovable. Hence the promiscuous and sad 80’s.

Words. Had to put them down and empty my head then maybe I can sleep.

All the monkeys and one very big ape.

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