UNTITLED MONOLOGUE.

[A/N: Here's a little something more on the raw, creative side that I'm working on for a stage play that I'm writing. I hope you can give my sincerity a brief glance and comment your feelings... if any haha!]

Before history made you, I was here. In the gravel-rough streets outside cheap hotels, I danced until my stilettos wore down to a blunt, swimming in my cheap perfume. At night the lights painted my skin neon blues and crimson, my flesh burning hot against the mouths of hungry men. My name differed every night, and I was never truly naked, you know, because they never knew you or your brothers’ names. I wouldn’t share. Even after one of them singed my skin with burning cigarette ends and demanded a virgin instead. Selfishly, I indulged their fantasies. Always the same story, always the same words.

Yes, I don’t have any children. I’m twenty-four, fresh-faced without a cent to my name, and I don’t have children. I learned to say this with a straight face. Can you blame me for claiming so, when the first one slammed their door in my face after they found out I had more than my own mouth to feed? So what if your grandparents don’t know you exist? You’d never meet them anyway. That’s not on me. It was the times, you understand? Listen, baby. There’s always that fine line. Lies and promises rest on either side of guilt. And everyone, everyone here must think my word is as good as a liar’s promise, but I swear I’m not a liar, I’m not a liar. I’m just a mother.

To be a mother, you have to be a woman, and to be a woman you should mean something to someone. A wife, a daughter or a mother-in-law. Never solo. I wasn’t anyone until I was his, and his, and his and his and his. To be your mother, I became everyone’s virgin.

After history made you, I couldn’t bear to hold you in my arms, or imagine teaching you the rule that to be invincible, you must first be a man’s. But now look at you… look at you. I can’t find a speck of me in you. And for that I’m glad, relieved to be honest. Keep it that way. I remember that first night I held your tiny pink fists against my cheeks and swore I would love you into a shape unrecognizable from the woman I was before she was your mother. So that you won’t take after me and know how to be wrong. 

So that you’ll mean it when you say, I’m sorry, I’ll do good, I promise you’ll never go hungry.