Do you recall your raindrops mimicking diamonds?
When my mom tries to make sure I’m not biting my nails, she evaluates my mental health. Taking note of all the names transmitted over phone calls within the past month. Her sentences fill with just make sure’s and as long as’s. As if addiction is easier to swallow if I stopped enjoying the taste of fingers to teeth, As if gnawing away at my mistakes, hoping an even nail will even out my breath. As if my mind doesn’t re-play my anxieties in HD. As if you are ashamed of anxiety personifying the mommy daughter relationship you always prayed for.
Words can miss me- gone and hard to find. Lost among bags you never packed. They come like waves, showing my chest cavity no mercy. They amerce me. Each letter and syllable needed to produce my public speech sounds like a eulogy before my lips form. Emphasizing knowledge built upon connections, yet my tongue stops short.
His body absorbed the sun.