i watch the sun rise at my mother's feet on a monday morning. i watch my mother writhe as i watch her skin rise, like the sun, warm over infected tissue. she vomits into my lap and i say it's okay. she squeezes my hands until my fingers turn red as the veins in her eyes, rising without sleep. she digs her nails into my legs as she begs for a god who isn't listening. for now i am the only god who is listening. i am listening to her ***** and tremble and plead. she tells me if there had been a gun by the bed she would have used it. for some reason i can't bear to think of my mother dying by her own hands but by her own cells is somehow more bearable. her hands and her once perfect cells, they live somewhere untouched inside of me. i carry them, no matter how heavy they grow.