a thick fog of hyperventilated breath, microwaved dinners, and nail polish remover separates into two halves as my mother breaks through my bedroom
the creaking of the door always, without fail, pierces directly through my ears and into the part of my brain that knows how to be kind and pleasant

no mother, i didn't hear about the wreck on 288 today
no, i don't know if i can go grocery shopping tomorrow
no, i don't ******* care to be a part of this family

every picture of a sad-looking, round-faced, blonde pigtailed child in any photo album collecting dust on a shelf in my house has "victim" written underneath like a description of a particularly memorable event, photographed to document such a milestone
i never caught any fish
i never won a trophy
there was so much empty space

mother, i could've been a ballerina
i would have enjoyed learning an instrument
mother, i wish none of this happened either

i suppose you can't ask why someone is upset when their house burns down because they left an open flame too close to the curtain
it doesn't matter why everything you own has turned to ash, it just matters
when every birthday cake for every year seems like a post card from the future saying "wish you were here" it feels good to blow out the candles

yes mother, i am the curtains of the family
no, i don't want to be