An inside joke formed between a literary couple,
Upon sitting under the fluorescent lights,
Of a hospital waiting room.
To name a child after an erotic writer,
A socialite and friend of Chaplin.
Elinor was crude, brash, but exhaustingly charming;
When she wished to be.
So naming a child after such a sublime creature,
Is that what they expected of me?
To dominate conversation and sprawl across a chaise,
To dictate women’s ideals by an infamous creation;
The ‘It’ girl who is adored by men,
And detested by women.
A woman who’d flutter among the stars,
And then slowly fade away.
The stars are dead,
And we only see the past light.
A distant lifeless light that blemishes the sky,
Like the freckles on my skin,
That disappear in the winter.
