Mom sits on my bed, next to me
while I play with the sewing machine.
The needle breaks, there’s a birds nest of thread, and the tension is all wrong;
I am angry at an object with moving parts.
She asks me questions about life, sewing, therapy
while I answer with yes and no and shrugs.
I guess you don’t want to talk right now.
No.
She leaves the room with sadness following
and I stay working with a heart filling with guilt and shame.