Self-Portrait as The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills Closed Captions
by Amanda Gaines
This is my party, and don’t you fucking forget it. Let
your hair down. Have a piece of bread, a bottle
of rosé. I speak four languages, funnel
jealousy, toothless and full of cockroach. Call me
beast, garbage of rubies and diamonds. I’m done
being nice. I’m ready for you
to meet a different person. A group of women
lives inside me, pounding walls, putting out
fires while one another goes down in flames.
Everybody knows. I hold a lot in the vault,
honey. This is not a conversation. Smoke
your electronic cigarette and drink
your martini. Shut it down. Court public opinion
in pearl and gut the silver lining. I own it.
This Jesus complex, I think. Command
pernicious squirrels and never pass up
on pistachio cake. Watch me
stir a pot of bimbo soup, put on ugly leather pants,
let the mouse go. Forget the flowers. I’m not
a victim. Squeeze honey and shake out the bloody
doormat. You can take all my things--
responsibility. I’ll be in Aspen, carcass out and starlit,
hiring butterflies. You don’t have to make excuses
for wanting to pray. I have been here for days, putting knife
to ice, veins swollen. Someone’s crying
somewhere. We all have a lot of regrets. I tried
to make it nice. Stick to your script. I’m finding myself
every day in shadow. You aren’t hearing me.
Sapphire distances grow between us. I know
what I have, pink curse. Let me finish. Give me
a chance to defend myself. I’ve been told
there’s a drinking solution, but all I want is a body
to throw to the wolves.
your hair down. Have a piece of bread, a bottle
of rosé. I speak four languages, funnel
jealousy, toothless and full of cockroach. Call me
beast, garbage of rubies and diamonds. I’m done
being nice. I’m ready for you
to meet a different person. A group of women
lives inside me, pounding walls, putting out
fires while one another goes down in flames.
Everybody knows. I hold a lot in the vault,
honey. This is not a conversation. Smoke
your electronic cigarette and drink
your martini. Shut it down. Court public opinion
in pearl and gut the silver lining. I own it.
This Jesus complex, I think. Command
pernicious squirrels and never pass up
on pistachio cake. Watch me
stir a pot of bimbo soup, put on ugly leather pants,
let the mouse go. Forget the flowers. I’m not
a victim. Squeeze honey and shake out the bloody
doormat. You can take all my things--
responsibility. I’ll be in Aspen, carcass out and starlit,
hiring butterflies. You don’t have to make excuses
for wanting to pray. I have been here for days, putting knife
to ice, veins swollen. Someone’s crying
somewhere. We all have a lot of regrets. I tried
to make it nice. Stick to your script. I’m finding myself
every day in shadow. You aren’t hearing me.
Sapphire distances grow between us. I know
what I have, pink curse. Let me finish. Give me
a chance to defend myself. I’ve been told
there’s a drinking solution, but all I want is a body
to throw to the wolves.
Amanda Gaines is an Appalachian writer with a Ph.D. in creative writing from Oklahoma State University. Her work has been published in Passages North, Cleaver, Potomac Review, Barrelhouse, Fugue, december, Witness, Southern Humanities Review, American Literary Review, Willow Springs, Redivider, New Orleans Review, Southeast Review, The Southern Review, Juked, Rattle, Pleiades, SmokeLong Quarterly, Ninth Letter, and Superstition Review. You can find more of her work at amandamariegaines.com.