the crescents under her eyes—
they cry to me, screaming in high-pitched voices,
"my child, my child, don't look at me."

in my head the stars paint a vivid picture of a weeping woman, with long hair and a willowy figure, biting at her lip. blood oozes out. i am spun back into the now.

the finger she points at me—
it redirects itself, checks, rechecks, and points back to herself, deadpanning,
"my child, my child, it's all my fault."

in my mouth sheds snakes the color of a neon green. underneath this glossy, perfect facade i am crumbling into shards and commas and em dashes. how can she be so cold? and yet so sorrowful?

the voice that echoes inside her—
it climbs into my lap and tries to strangle me.
but i'm much stronger, a shriek that has learned how to deflect, and i rise and shout,
"woman, woman, i am not your child."

in my dreams i conquer.