When my mother said goodbye,
she said it was getting hard to hug me,
on fear that my bones will catch her skin
and tear her open.

She says when she hears my typewriter,
it resembles my joints clicking,
when I break the spine of a book,
it simulates my future,
how it makes her feel.

I don't blame her for having nightmares
about "carbocide, nutritional cleansing"

I have stared in mirrors and felt
light avoiding my faults,
for my illness is invisible

and I am fading.