“It’s hardly a simple decision,” she tells me, hairbrush in hand as she stiletto struts across the room towards my chair, legs lengthening and waist thinning as she speaks. “You’ve got to choose the right look when morphing, see now, this one…” her eyes shimmer briefly as grey melts into green and her nose thins and shortens, “this body just screams sex, sex, sex, it’s good for nothing else really and when you wear it you have to own it. You don’t wear a body like this to the library!” I nod my head and pretend to listen, watching as my mother’s face shifts again and another woman picks up her sentences right where the old lips left off. You would think that someone who could take the appearance of anyone would never worry about how they look, wouldn’t fiddle nervously with stray hairs before panic forces them to shake out a whole new haircut only to change it again a moment later, jealous of all those wearing it better.
I cannot ask you for balance. It was you faltering that had me loosing mine and all I want is to see you have it back.
Words trickle too fast, floods of imagination; leaves only ink blots.
The last couple of talks in my creative writing course have been focused on performance poetry, so I thought it might be about time that I gave it a go. Since this is a first attempt I would love to hear feedback so please, please leave a comment and tell me what you think.