The Illusion

She always knew exactly what to say. There was a perfect turn of phrase flowing from her red lips in the fraction of a second where it belonged. It was as if her words and the moment fused together, creating something glorious that never existed before but felt perfect.

My friends always loved her "because she was so young." Her toes were always a seductive shade of crimson and her hair fell in waves across her face like a chocolate fountain. Her set of skills included: poetry, painting, sewing, baking, and interesting, eloquent conversation.

She was my mother.

When I turned 11, she used her red lips to seduce another man that wasn't my father, or even my step-father.

When I turned 13, she used her swaying words to spread lies that caught me and burned me to ashes. I had to go away.

When I turned 16, she used her youth to convince yet another man, a boy, really, to share her bed. Like a siren, she brought him in with promises of rapture, only to beat him to death against her stone cold nature.

She still knows how to turn a phrase, I'm sure. I wouldn't know, because I cannot hear her anymore. I may have been birthed out of a microcosm with perfection on the outside and putrid, rotten secrets on the inside, but it no longer defines me. I am immune to the illusion.