Mothers like mine tend to break bones.
Not literally, perhaps,
but with each sly reference to my weight
I swear you can hear my ribs crack.
It's grotesque, our kind of love,
for in her eyes I will always be
too much for others,
and not enough for herself.
Yet I yearn for her
most during moments of illness.
I wish to cross paths in public,
where so many of our rare embraces
are exchanged, though I feel
her presence most when I look in the mirror.
I long to give her a wishbone,
a childish attempt at finding a
replacement for my own skeleton.
The most genuine prayer
I have ever whispered.
For I know a love
like ours requires breaking bones
I just hope that this will suffice, instead.
YOU ARE READING
HEAVENLY CORRUPTION
PoetryThe ramblings of a woman who spent too much time in confession and too little time trying to figure out what exactly she was apologizing for.
