I gave birth to my mother yesterday.

There she is- running around,
laughing about- dead dolls in
hand, yellow hairbands and
blue tees.

Perhaps she was not mine to
give birth to- perhaps I was
hers.

I had painkillers for breakfast.
To-night, I dine on my mother's
soul.

I dined on whispers yester-night.
To-night, I write the stories.