Aunt Kiki - Original Writing

Aunt Kiki - Original Writing

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Aunt Kiki - Original Writing

There she is, the person with no self respect. It is as if all the
dignity has been drained out of her to all that’s left is a mindless
zombie. Walking into the room with not a care in the world of what she
looked like or even what other people thought of her. While she enters
the room the distinct odour of tobacco and burnt shrubs fills my lungs
and nostrils, the fetid smell of her clammy body embraces me. Why kill
yourself for a white stick (cigarettes) and me?, my aunt was always a
arrogant and proud woman but very bigoted, that’s why she never
listened to anyone else and the cause of her becoming like this.

Its not that she’s not pretty but, her desperation envelopes her inner
beauty. But her outfit is acceptable today. In the kitchen as usual
with her madcap but somehow admirable hairstyle. The atypical use of
jet black and electric blue colour make her hair look like a swirling
vortex, swallowing the galaxy. Today she has decided to show of her
long, spider like legs, wrapped around her a blue denim skirt. It
looks rather like a rubber band tied around her waist. Her arms are
toned and she’s naturally tanned. Stepping into the garden she
glistens like the sun (which she never fails to show of her skin)
unfortunately, the tight top shows her belly that looks like jelly.
Her flab sticks out, bobs up and down as she strides. Her top is a
bright sky blue with silver writing “sexy bitch”. the laces of her
espadrilles spiral up to her knees making a criss cross pattern, the
heels themselves are about 6 inches high, which make her look like a
daddy long legs. She has a relatively small body, long legs and a big
head. Colour co-ordination is an essential part of kikis like. She
always said to me “ a man wont go for you for your looks, but only if
you know how to dress, always try to impress” I pondered the

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questioning whether people do indeed marry for looks or for mainly for
love. Her attitude was always so negative towards men so that when she
does get one, he ends up running away. Looking out to the garden
fighting back the tears as she tells me about another one of her “men”
only if she could see clearly through her contacts, they’re like a
window or door and the solitary way to get through it (she thinks)is
by pleasing society and trying to seek the perfect man.

Her pride swallows her and stops her from accepting the truth, to love
and care for your body, no stranger has a right to see it, anarchy is
what I call it, but she calls it freedom. Tears of rejection flow down
her face furthermore the foundation on her face itself looks like a
second layer of skin, trying to cover all close “unseen blemishes”,
mascara is dripping down her eyes like a stream of blood. If love
causes this much pain why do so much to get it, I wonder. Then
ironically she whispers “men aren’t worth it”. I see both the physical
and mental destruction and Annihilation that wanting to be loved badly
has caused. I believe that patience is a virtue. Her mind is now
twisted after bad experience with men. Now I know I know. This is like
a warning not to be a victim of love. I will not exploit myself for
others who are just like me.
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