Mome Rath

She's the Cheschire Cat impersonation, reincarnated into a girl. Strutting down the streets in black, ankle-high boots, with slick mascared yellow cat eyes feeding upon anything in sight, anything appetizing, otherwise vulgar. Oversized Gothic crosses and beads resting lightly upon her ample bosom, clad all in black: tight black baby doll tank top, black Victorian corset, and black tutu. A pleather black belt on her hips, rhinestone and fake diamond belt buckle displaying the name SAFIRO. Sleek as a petal, she's taking it all in, the sneers, the giggles, 'hey mama, how about tonight?' Relishing in the urban wonderland she crosses on her way home, loving the arousal she knows she's causing, the shy, sensitive little girl burrowing underneath smooth mocha skin and crimson red nails.

Not a care in the world. She spends hours and hours riding the city like it was her own. Like a cat meowing softly in deserted dark alleys, that is her state of mind. Where no one can take her, nothing can hurt. Just relishing, relishing, with a Lewis Carroll tune spilling softly from her lips, over and over and over again:

"'Twas brillig, and slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe."

Until darkness sets, and her makeup glows off her face in shades of red and silver. Nevetheless, reality rushes back into her head like a drug. She knows she must get home. No more taking the long way around, discovering new parks, new bars, new castles, new boys. The Virgin Mary key chain, along with the various butterfly clips attached to her bag jingle along as she speeds up, and she takes the usual path home. Laughter, screams, and arts and crafts galore greet her at the door.

"Safiro, Safiro!"

All her brothers and sisters are home now, back from school, and after school day-care. Her supposed "recovered" alcoholic mother has already left, possibly downtown, to party, or just to escape, drowning her responsibilities in alcohol. She's left a turquoise colored shack behind her, overtaken by weeds and full of overactive bastard four and five year olds. The cat act must drop; Safiro throws her bag down and puts pots on boil. Spaghetti every night keeps her little sibblings happy. Nestled between mini, hyperactive versions of herself, she kicks back and relaxes to pasta and a Disney movie.

"What's playing tonight, sis?"

"Alice! Alice In Wonderland."

"Again?"

Once they're all sound asleep in the room with the tearing red roses wallpaper and the four twin beds, she can then set up the sofafor herself. She lets the Cleopatra jet-black hair down, pinned up all day in a messy bun on top of her head. She takes off allthe beads, the crosses, strips all the black off herself and massages her feet, used to the everyday long strolls into nowhere. Secretly she desires someday she will not have to find her way back, that something beyond magical winds it way through the city and confronts her, something so colossal it can not be ignored. Once, just once, could she continue the Cheschire Cat routine, with no immediate thoughts of returning "home."

She sniffs and sighs, rolls her eyes, and lays her head on the cheap old gypsy cushion purchased a flea market off the road. Sipping green tea and munching on Oreo cookies, she savors the different flavors in her mouth until she falls asleep. Slowly, delicately, she curls up and vanishes into another day, the lullaby in her head playing like a broken record, spinning like mad watch, spinning like her head:

"'Twas brillig, and slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe."