When they cut you open,
No one worries about where the organs are supposed to go.
They will shift themselves back into positions.
When someone cuts you open,
They do not worry about your organs.
When my mother cut me open,
She ignored the organs.
and the blood.
But, how dare I stain the towels with my grief?
These saltwater tears will bleach her bathmats.
She tells me to go.
Says that if I want to act injured,
I should go bleed somewhere else.
I borrow my sister's bag to carry these bleeding organs.
I have stitched her incisions often enough.
She begs me to sew myself closed.
My wound has never had a chance to heal.
Never had a chance to become scab.
To become scar.
I am tired of popping my sutures.
Tired of cleaning my own blood from the carpets.
Let it stain.
I do as I am told. I leave and do not look back.
This final stain in my mother's life,
The only thing to remember me by.
YOU ARE READING
Zoning out at Work Vibes
PoetrySometimes at work, the idea for a story or poem pops into my head. No one said I should write them down, but I've decided to try anyway. Maybe you will think it is awful, but I already love this. About halfway through, I begin to mix in some of my o...
