anne sexton wrote love letters to my soul
long before i was conceived.
i think she knew the ways, all the ways, in which i'd suffer, before i did.
because it's a tale as old as time; you profit off my soft heart
and i consider death, always, as the solution.

my mother suffered in the same way,

                    as did hers, as did hers,

and hers, and the anger has nowhere to go but in to our marrow
to exist long aftet we don't.

we birth it in new girls, beautiful new girls who are worth more than the currency
of how they can serve others.

i wanted to be different, i really did, anne.
the nuance of your long nights and painful days was not lost on me.
painted a temple in the language of supressed women
for me to see-
split at the ventricle to become the mother, the daughter, the *** goddess, the poor browbeaten housewife.

and all i do is crane my neck and admire it all, eave to eave.