My mother's soul: demonic voices. Shizophrenic whispers twined together...
A clump of burning sage billowing serpentine smoke into the still air.
What is she? A creature of regret,
Pathetically keening for pity to cater to a hollow heart,
and an empty stomach.
My shoulders wither, weeping willow'd, beneath her red-nosed, tear-glossed stare.
I'm nothing.
Exploited.
Made of love and guilt.
I try to get close to her -
but even touching fingertip to fingertip, there stands between us
a plate of glass.