The color she picks is metallic purple. It reminds me of a skirt I used to wear to the club-of-the-week before I became legal.

As she takes in every colorful detail of her favorite superhero cartoon, I paint her tiny fingernails more carefully than I’ve ever painted my own. I don’t tell her that one day, she might incur ridicule, envy, or a combination of the two simply for being a beautiful girl with bold nails. I don’t tell her that some pervy guy might mistake her polish as an invitation for sex. I don’t tell her of the greedy fingers that might attempt to abscond with her flowering soul and auction it off to the best-paying bidder. Most of all, I don’t tell her about society’s nasty underbelly, and how it creeps and waits to strike during the budding of juvenescence. Hiss.

She thanks me as I finish painting. Her eyes never leave the TV screen, so I know she doesn’t see.


1987 001

Picking strawberries in my childhood

I see this girl as stranger with my memories.

Who were you?

Appreciate the reads — indeed I do.


Join the conversation! 2 Comments

  1. I want to like this over and over!!! I love this piece!

    Liked by 1 person


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About Jane Bled

Dreaming, writing, singing. Curious queer human. Soul-deep; heart speaks.


All Things Jane Bled, Flash Fiction, Free, Personal, Writing


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