I often wonder if the bottle that will kill my mother has made its way to the store.
If it’s sitting there on the shelf
With its label that took a degree in graphic design to think up
And its cap securely fashioned on the rim
I wonder if the grocery man has hurriedly placed it on the shelf
Grudgingly thinking of the BBQ it will no doubt end up at
Sulking as he thinks of the laughs and sunshine
He doesn’t know that the bottle will be desperately thrown into the cart
Grabbed by trembling fingers attached to
A soul searching for answers
Wheeled away with recklessness and urgency
And sped back to a dark room with curtains drawn and cigarette smoke billowing
It won’t be popped open amidst contentment and a warm summer breeze
It will be unlatched with a feverish haste and a final cry for help
Downed like a poison
that was only ever meant to be for fun
I often wonder if the bottle that will kill my mother has made its way to the store
And then I pray that it will never make it home.
By: Amelia Pratt
Just a quick glance in the mirror before I go, she says.
She runs to the bathroom.
Yikes, nags insecurity. Look at that blemish, it continues. He will be so focused on that that there is no way he will listen to you.
She pulls out more makeup.
Gross, screams doubt. Who told you that that dress would be a good idea? It exclaims. Cover up. No one wants to see that.
Her eyes drift to her closet.
No way, expresses societal standards. You’re bringing a bikini with a waist like that? It says, exasperated. Hit the gym or don’t even think about going swimming.
Her toes inch for the scale.
When did pimples become points
Dresses become deal breakers
When did bodies become contestants and
society the judge
When did beauty become defined as Botox and barbie dolls
All have one thing in common:
By: Amelia Faith Pratt
Bristles like achievements and
brush strokes like plans
A handle to grasp
and fingers to guide to way
Built up expectations in solid colors and clear lines
meet disappointment in mixture and smears
Crystal clear water of hoped-for outcomes is attacked by the brown clouded concoction that is the child of dirty paintbrushes and backup plans
But aren’t the most beautiful paintings tied together with blends and faults
Miscalculations turned into masterpieces and
accidents adjusted to allure
Aren’t the most resilient people sewn up with mistakes and flaws
Tainted with do-overs and messy paintbrushes
I’d like to think so
By: Amelia Pratt