The lady had green hair threaded with black and droop down eyes that said, ‘if you do something you don’t want to for the rest of your life it becomes a shoe bite that eats away at you forever.’
She’s tall with collarbones that branch into shoulders which hug my mother.
‘Earning money? Your parents must love what they do to have been doing it everyday for all these years, and theyre very luck for it.’
She has green hair and a flight to florence the tomorrow evening.
We pull out the museum guide books.

‘Dont take all of them down, she doesn’t need to see all of them’
No, behind our nameplates and chipped plaster walls, I don’t think my parents are lucky. Not when father is yelling at arsenal half the world away because its the only thing that really matters and not when  mother yells over dal and rice that she never wanted to be one, that this is all a mistake.
She’s sat on the grey sofa with a glass of our apple juice in her hands, flicking through medieval Italian art and a hidden hurt in her voice.
Father won’t be home till midnight and mother is alseep, so maybe this is the time to breathe.
Shes gone, but not really. My head hurts from the memory of her in this house, and there’s the threat of bringing dinner back up at the thought of her coming back.
Is she right or a lucky delusional, is my mother true or not, does father really know what he’s doing as we pack the house and mark the boxes and ourselves with fragile warnings again.

I can’t see anything through this mask in which my face grows hot and my head pounds, the sound of my breathing and gasping roaring loud against cardboard.
Shes the green the hair I wish I had and the downward turn at the end of my eyes, but I am too scared to take off these shoes so I shall walk with the bite.


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