i let my mother lay in her garden,
an apron of floral gods shining underneath lunar light.
she was still laughing when i wept,
words went dry as they crept underneath my teeth,
and were flung into the wet night.
one “sorry” stuck in between three stars;
she dripped with dust that scorned my skin.
blood matted my hair and broke my soul,
my own bones betrayed what i praised;
blood of the covenant had been shed in a parsley field of bumbling hearth, and we felt nothing near remorse.
just great gore upon our hands that grew into chalices as we drank our guilt,
just the ropes that made our necks red and raw with wracking sobs.
when this is all you feel, remorse gets thrown to the backseat of a chevy,
and we’re reminded of a youth like yellow wildflowers,
but i also think of the girls i kissed and how they made their hands into knives that weaved through ribcages and spilt the contents of a soul onto indian blankets.
when this is all we feel, we don’t feel remorse because it is a state you live in and i can’t feel the difference between regret and love.
we let a mother lay in her garden,
her apron of morbid gods was buried by the mourning sun.
i wrote this in response to a prompt ("lunar"). it's about anxieties and regrets and depression and home and something i can't name.
