The costume becomes me when the becoming costumes me
I am the Tar Monster, scaring little girls.
But just as soon, I am the scared little girl running from the Other phantoms. They see the Monster on me and when they hold up a mirror of blank stares, I too can see It’s gruesome shadow, the hideous reflection of my self. Is it a grotesque creature in floral frills, or a little girl dripping with tar and fit to be feathered?
Sinking, sticking, and swallowed by the pool, the tar adheres to my dress and the dress, in turn, to my person. Slick and shiny, it laps at me, lulls me into the earth, consumes me and makes me Something else; Something ugly with a bow on top.
Realizing the faux pas, becoming it
I can take off the dress, but can I remove its mark?
The others can laugh, but not me. I’m waiting for the sticky stuff to slide off and make me more like them.
When it does I can swim, fly, tumble, and speak with the rest. Until then, I walk off to be alone, with my mark as my excuse.
