Cry,
her eyes succumbing to their selfish demand
which they so often did
her sobs old news,
but a more definite pastime
Than numbness.
Driving invalidated by a lack of destination
Stop signs blurring
In salt water, a stew of ****** Christian music
disingenuous howls louder than thoughts, and
Radio static filling spaces like confusion
, "I feel broken", she informed the rear-view mirror
For lack of better words
Her acidic tears dissolved the soft armor
Of her twins in the back seat.
Who added their mother's grief
to the bruises on their insides.
And mourned the cigarette smoke
She swore would never be there
So the sad little Saturn was weighty
and drove ruts in the pavement
with dysfunctional hurt
and she was subject to trite metaphors
Which she spewed at an alarming rate
For she never got rid if
The ****-tinted glasses
That were taped to her face.
About my mother, and mental illness and temporary fixes and denial.
