My mother wished me beautiful.

She wished my lips cold crimson,
caring more for their colour
than the words they would form.
She wished my skin white as snow:
pale to match a pale personality.
For my hair she coveted the ebony
of her window-frame – dark and thick
to keep warm an absence of ideas;
thoughts she never wished for me.

Like her window-frame my hair splintered
with age, curled, turned less-than-black,
faded, turned less-than-grey.
My lips cracked
like her dried blood,
dissolved and churned
in snow.
My skin
the dregs of winter
slush – yellowing,
dull, dirty.

My mother wished me beautiful.
Nothing more.

© Hayley Shields 2009