Carrie

Carrie’s dead. She’s smothered by a pillow. She’s in love with her vintage curtains. Carrie’s gripped by the neck in the tub. She’s scared of water. She’s immersed in her own fluids.

Carrie’s the daughter of a salesman. The sister of a psychiatrist. Carrie’s flying a kite on Easter. It touches a cloud and falls back down. Carrie’s on the ground like a snow angel. She’s been battered by a man who’s a jack of all trades but a master of none.

Carrie’s on a bus. People pass by to say hello. She’s ridiculed when she’s impregnated by a man who leaves her. Carrie’s silenced. She’s cut up and left on a muddy hill with a torn dress. Carrie’s made for a TV screen. A wide smile. A high pitched voice.

Carrie’s placed on a bed to please. She’s found lifeless on a mattress with bed bugs. Carrie’s passionate. She’s a chocolate pie lover. She keeps her leather gloves on while eating. Carrie’s a collector. She has a painting of stacked severed hands in her kitchen.

Carrie’s guilt ridden. A young man’s mis…