My Mother once told me that the pain will burn your lies until all that you leave behind with every step you take
is the smoke of the cigarettes you once held dear but I was pathologically just imagining her saying things to me with her back turned and her eyes closed.
The soles of my shoes are as worn as my eyes when midday reaches its peak
and the last time she spoke to me it was only to tell me that she'd return the favour
by playing the games I never meant to put in place just to spite my severe apathy towards the ways of living in her world.
I'm still only a pebble on a stretch of sand I won't live long enough to see
and parallel lines that were perpendicular to the fragile vein of life were the only things I bothered to pay attention to
but she'll never know that.
I'm still the only ceramic mug on the shelf and eyes pass over me quicker than dust gathers on my shoulders.
I'll never be able to compare the flames in my lungs to the crackle of firewood of lost travellers
for the only blazes I start are the ones that dry my throat and leave my eyes bloodshot.
My Mother talks about love like it's the remedy to every illness but my Father's eyes gaze fleetingly at her soul
and she still claims that their love was the most powerful thing in the world.