i don’t remember a lot of things.

My mother stole my voice when i was ten

though, i do remember that. A voice

so commanding, like a barking army general, her words,

ravens, swooping

down my throat. Her eyes held no emotion.

It was a game to her, to make me see things

her way.

i sat on a barstool staring at lavender walls

& tiled floors

as mother drilled

that she was the only friend that i would ever have.

& i knocked my feet on the legs

of that barstool

pretending that her face

rested behind my heel.

i clinched my tiny fists

praying for the courage

to give her a one-two punch.

taco meat was burning (but she didn’t care)

& spices inflamed my throat & stung my eyes.

Tears ran down my cheeks & onto

my new shirt.

i thought of how my true friends would have

wiped my cheeks

& kissed my forehead.

But mother didn’t bother, she was too busy

convincing me that

she was my only friend in this lonely world

as smoke curled from the

gas stove.

<3<3<3

But suicides have a special language.

Like carpenters they want to know which tools.

They never ask why build.

-Anne Sexton, Wanting to die.

*thank you anne, you are a supreme goddess. <3<3<3

- +