These Days

My mother prefers to buy me clothes over objects that would make my home more pleasant to dwell in. My mother wants me to get married. She wants me to marry a man with a lot of money. The age no longer matters. He could be very young, or he could be very old. By now she only hopes I’ll meet a man with enough financial means so she can stop worrying. Mom worries about her money running out. So since I’ve grown breasts, she’s been buying me clothes that exhibit my body effectfully. I’m beautiful, people think. Because I’m slender, and my eyes are fire-green. The clothes I wear especially accentuate my narrow waist and my collarbone that could break the arms and legs of a baby.