I sit in silence with my mother because how am I meant to say the roots of everything I despise about myself lie at her feet? That I've learnt to refuse to let her make me feel shame and guilt for eating? That to this day I look at my body and hear the echos of insults she hurled at eight year old me about the fat on my hips, their dips and dimples? That my partners hands caress that same flesh and she kisses away my hatred?
I sit in silence with my mother because she doesn't talk, she shouts out of anger at the cage she's in. And in her volume I hear the echos of everything she's been unable to achieve, all her hopes and dreams cruches by pre-conceived ideas of femininity and society's prying eye? Can never ask why she allowed herself to be chained, and silenced. Why her present is only half the shadow of her past.
I sit in silence with my mother because how can I say everything I take pride in is what she hates most about me? That my sexuality is not a choice, but I've chosen that label and I treasure it? That femininity to me is hair where I can see it, swearing when people can hear, and unapoligetically taking up space others would rather I vacate? That my rejection of faith isn't a reflection of her, but rather proof she raised someone who learnt to challenge before they accept? That I'm strong and resiliant
As his limbs stroked along the bottom with all the power he held, in slow motion, there was a case to be made for the existence of the magical and the occult. Kaleidoscope webs covered his back in what looked like infinite rainbow nets each brushing against a bone or muscle unseen in the plain light before. His hair was softened by the absence of air, each strand fainting at a different angle begging to be touched right before being pulled in one direction of precise yet strenuous motion. All neglected now was illuminated. Rarely things burn their way into memory the way a face can be filtered through transparency, distorted by liquid out of proportion yet still so charmingly calm and surreal all you can do is look away and then stare again. And what bottomless greed it is indeed to wish to posses a moment like this for eternity.
I could swear I felt the sting, as you injected yourself in my bloodstream. In my defence, I was high for the most of it. I was drunk on all of that your sparkly wings offered back. And your melancholic gaze I've only seen in fiction since. I'll admit to my arrogance to assume parasites were mostly worms, when I know there are still songs about pretty, magic, folk. And I can feel myself both host and feast, and all you see is just a treat. And if I had soul, it's now ablaze, and now all I do is waste my days. And at this point in space and time, your words occupy my mind.