Two days after my twenty-fifth birthday,
my mother called me saying
she had a dream that I was lonely
I brought her all the poems I wrote, and
told her that this is the memoir of the days
I spent digging my own grave
Outside the photo booth, she declared her
first successful attempt
in stomping my heart like I wasn’t
a daughter she gave birth to at twenty-two
I wore the not-good-enough-for-mommy
badge in my pity party every night,
pointing out all the flaws were
one of the fun parts we often did
We meant me and the loneliness,
we meant me and the memories
of her wanting to burn down my things
of her telling me her mother did worse
of her saying I belonged in hell,
but I mastered turning her words
into some work of art,
turning myself into a walking
parade balloon,
turning the wound into a life-sized
figurine
So, two days after my twenty-fifth birthday
I called my mother saying
I was lonely, but I didn’t want to **** myself