you’ve got it all wrong, momma.
flaunting your grief,
striping that poor sycamore down to a ghost off tree.
we revel in skeletons,
and find the clean lines
that divide
what is right and what is wrong.
sensous and economical,
the dead sing us songs i am learning to answer.
you would never understand the appeal
of power.
am i a hypothetical to you?
bow to me, forgotten godesss.
broken girls find solace in persephone.
i’m learning new words like pomegranate,
a word you can **** on.
pom- thick, round, bittersweet bulge.
e- the one you slide over to get to gran,
a slow swelling, cancer or the rose.
finally granate, stones stopping your heart cold.
pomegranate, a word you spit out, seeds sticking to your teeth,. don’t you see i never could have stayed?
you only want gods who water your crops, who let you bow beneath their thrones, if you do so quietly.
i want my own throne, and i want to be loud. i want to disscus the fulitlity of existence, the burden of immortality.
i want a life like my dearest pomegranates,
bittersweet and complex.
in short, i left for a reason.
i am not your daughter anymore.