I called my mom today asking for help, we talked about the weather instead.
I called my mom today asking for help, we talked about the weather instead.
I'm good mom, how are you?
Yeah, my grades are fine.
You don't know
that I can't walk past a mirror without pinching the fat around my hips,
until it becomes a familiar purple hue.
Laden by longing for it to crumble in my hands, so I might escape my own scrutiny.
That if a black hole came and swallowed the earth whole,
I would rejoice, saying "thank god!" the fat around my hips will be sucked into the silent abyss.
When I was small,
I sat on the bathroom counter and watched you squint your eyes and pull the skin underneath your chin.
My center to a bitter feminine world.
I called my mom today asking for help, we talked about the weather instead.
How is work going?
Oh, that's nice.
I close my eyes and pray that he isn't a soulless form.
I'm on my knees, I beg for him to experience regret.
God, give him a reminder of me so he may feel that sharp stab in his heart,
the stab that comes to me much easier than the air I need to fill my own lungs.
Mom, I wonder did you ever have someone like him?
Hold my sunken head and whisper that you know how it feels to wake up that morning
and have your body remember something your brain has not yet.
Assure me that I won't always feel his body just like I feel my own.
I called my mom today asking for help, we talked about the weather instead.
How's dad?
Oh, I am glad he's feeling better.
Do you remember that time you taught me to hold my keys between my fingers?
Could you see me as an exception, mom?
A conversation parallel with fear and love.
We went to get ice cream after, I ordered chocolate with sprinkles.
You ordered only a small bite of mine.
I called my mom today asking for help, we talked about the weather instead.
I hope the garden is doing well.
Have there been any new flowers?
My words will always hang in the back of my mouth.
I long to tell you that I take up too much space.
That I've been trying to keep it neat and tight,
but my passion will always spill over the tiny square I have allowed myself to exist in.
Mom, why didn't you tell me that I'd always be a fawn?
I'd be battered and bruised but I will always be a fawn.
I'll have to sit up straight but I will yearn to lie in a patch of grass.
the place where the sun warms it to the touch.
I called my mom today begging, pleading, screaming for help,
we talked about the weather instead.