these kinds of questions:

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the eager atrocity. a rancid hand jerking my tongue like a leash.  i fixate on my face in the mirror.  i think of my mother.  the image of her big curls. was i really once someone's daughter?  the hands that slapped my dirty face.  the dirt found in my crevices.  the crevice where i hid my diary.  the pages they violated.  the pages they mocked.  was i ever really anyone's daughter?  where is my father?  he hates me like he hates my mother.  my dead.  my dusty womb.  she blows away, out from the belly of the clock where she is kept.  the horrible tick of minutes vibrating through her ash.  the rhythm of my own eventuality clicking in the chalky grey of her remains.  what of me?  what of these lists?  what of the hairs i leave accidentally in your rug?  in my absence, they are there to cling to your elbow and catch on your cheek.  a cobweb.  in those moments, i know you will not love me.  my dead parts wrapping around your wrists.  my dead parts collecting in the bottom of your pockets.  the bottom of your drain.  was i really ever anybody's daughter?  anyone's beloved scroll of pink? 



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