tumbling,
through troughs and peaks,
a washing machine of words,
thrown at me,
while I am already rung dry,
already wilted, crumpled,
ready to form into debris,
yet,
out of love matched with anger,
they unleash leeches,
I spend the rest of the days unpicking insects off my skin,
laughing,
as I observe the montrosities of words,
I never speak to hurt,
and if to hurt, then I remain silent,
why curl my mouth into a hissing snake?
if I can sit growing on a windowsill,
in solitude, to heal,
not to hide but to recover,
to regrow roots,
to make sure the tornado does not come pull me out of the soil I spent feeding all summer,
to ensure the ground is fertile,
to make sure the roots don’t die again before its backbone grows,
where is the rush in time coming from,
did I not wait years to leave?
my body has grown distant from emotions,
nothing awakens,
or is evoked by a string of letters,
now I observe,
wondering how far into the earth I must fall into,
for them to understand,
how rotten their ways have become,
Yet, I am just a molested daughter,
who must be just like her mother,
because I refused to open my mouth for months,
in effort to save the last bit of breath I hold,
only to save myself,
how selfish I must be,
to not bury myself into the water,
to not finalise this trial of life,
how foolish I must be,
to continue gasping for breath in dirty waters,
to not stand in nitrogen,
while the alarm turns red,
how alike me and my mother must be,
to be so horrid as each other,
our hearts so black and rotten,
forgotten,
like moulds growing in damp,
having parasites come eat at my bitter flesh,
I wonder in what capacity they could frame us,
draw a picture for me and decorate it,
with what a parent should look like for their child,
Show me what my mother should look like,
Frame me a photograph of me and her holding hands smiling,
Photoshop in my yearning heart,
Photoshop her heart covered in ash, in malice, in greed,
She overthrew me,
A palace of demons,
Knife in hand, a bowl of burning water, a cushion for muffling the screams,
Ask me how she used to burn me,
or how she would launch me out the house,
Oh no, but we share the same eyes no?
The same lips to speak soft words,
But I do not recall her language being like clouds,
Instead horror stories can be reformed from the imagery of what cannot be unseen,
We are so alike aren’t we?
Me and the woman who gave birth to me,
We must share the same blood surely?
Birthed into the world out of hatred,
But we are just like each other no?
I moved oceans to ensure I did not feed the curse,
to not further morph into the Person that is she,
But we must be connected in bloody essence, no?
Hungry for death, I mean her wish upon me,
and I upon myself,
Surely that is worthy of encasing our two names together in a sentence?
After all these years, are we not one?
Surely, after the suffocation has lessened,
and I have spent this time undoing all that was done,
Unearthing the depths of these lacerations,
this lesions, and scouring them daily,
Surely now, after rewiring, redesigning, remoulding my tongue,
Undamaging my own mind,
Whilst washing with bleach my eyes all that I had to unsee,
Surely now,
they would give me the privelage,
of not mounting my name, with my Abuser,
but that is all okay,
Heaven runs under the feet of your mother,
and a child of course,
can be a pillow for your love, in any form,
Maybe in due to time,
when I am put into ground,
a hymn of my pain can be sung over my grave,
an ancestral chant of unwanted children,
with harps played by the fallen angels.
I am I.
They are They.