self-love is a murky swamp amid a stranded fog;
my mother’s failures are as abundant as her rock collection,
which always made me wonder why we didn’t live someplace
closer to the sea.
like a baby bird with its mouth wide open,
i waited for guidance until the ache of my jaw became unbearable,
so i jumped out of
the nest on impulse
and hit the pavement, hard.
every ***** was donated to the bellies of the magpies,
every thought stolen by the worms.
some strands of hair evaporated into the sky,
while others were used as material for future nests.
any left over flesh was given to the wolves,
for they recognized my inexhaustible spirit.
my eyes, hungry for survival,
dug tiny holes for themselves, and went to sleep.
by the time spring came around they starting sprouting
forget-me knots that were picked and placed
in a small bouquet, purchased by a lady
that gave the bouquet to her daughter
on the day she learned how to mother herself,
with a note attached that said:
“please forgive me.”