that deeply felt, deeply denied hunger for things—any thing really, but really cheap small things to pack in trunks—left me staring late late—much too late for i was but a babe, already much much too tall—
at the twinkling lights
on the tree
at the end of the hall.
down this hall—our only hall, its walls felt like paper—my awareness floated, while i remained stable, frozen in the bed with the aunt. not just in my mind, that tree sprouted, the little gangly lot, draped at its bottom for decency, surrounded by christmas packages, flirting with me like girls who truly don’t want girls but what the hell do i care. suspended there, i felt like donna reed—though i certainly wouldn’t have known her by that name then—and wished, to the writer’s current embarrassment, that i weren’t fat.
(disgusting.)
growing bored with my self even then, i stuck my hands down my pajamas to find that little hard cap, recently discovered, to be grasp when thinking of the boys or of food or of words. i rolled round, roughly, tubing myself in the sheet, tightening myself, elevated and uncaring. breathe did not come quick as i was still learning all the uses of my little nob, had only stuck so far a fingertip in my cleft, so i’m unsure why exactly the aunt freed herself from slumber long enough to ask what i was doing, turn over, and, again, mentally exit the scene.
i felt like donna reed.
