Everyone calls my mother by how I call her: mommy.
Sweet, dearly Mommy!
But mostly, I call her by how she is always right,
as she still makes fun of my fire:
"Son, pour your blood onto something else";
Sweet Mother, goodness gracious, Mommy!
My mommy loves a husband clothed in reeking patriarchy;
regardless, he is a Plath's "Daddy," and my Mommy's love for him is a Shakespeare's until-death-do-us-part.
Then he comes home, and she dies every time he speaks.
Poor, Mommy! Is love that delight?
I have known love as how it looks like a two-sided coin:
with rusting ridges, still
I use it to pay the fare,
but it is not fair: distance still wrecks.
I am far from where they are,
I am near my Mommy and we will never meet.
The hatred is piled up, enough to orchestrate a crime and to hide it in nightmarish metaphors. I have imagined you getting piercing through the fragility of the roof of your mouth, until you beg for forgiveness with your really untamed spirit. Perhaps, flaying would be much better, but crying will be reverberated through every corner of your long shattered room, as your annoyingly pleading voice will still be heard. An unforgivable, hell-bent serpentine, you always are, caressing the man’s ego extracting his exhaustion, and me against a fiend in your presence. Such a soft way to demonstrate hell to you— as it was not even a flinch, or a poke. You deserve heaven appearing reverse, so the gods you have known will forbid your salvation.
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