the light kills my sleep—an interloper
a fierce warrior spearing my lids.
I lie awake as my mother runs her mouth,
every word she speaks is a casualty.
I count her swear words to keep myself from thinking.
I wonder if they used the word shit in Shakespeare’s day,
somehow it doesn’t seem eloquent.
how dare I bring this homosexual shit into our house?
this trashy, low-grade, shit—(not very original)—
how dare I.
a book hits the wall,
the cover bending willfully to the force of the plaster.
A picture of two girls dressed in white,
cuddling,
already crumpling as it skids to a halt on the floor.
sixteen years and this is how I treat my mother?
I disrespect her home and her family,
allowing myself (degrading myself) to fall prey
to an unacceptable lifestyle.
I look into her eyes; I try to find a piece of peace.
I try to find a few flickering lights that might show me—
I am still her child.
But she has turned before I can even open my mouth,
and I am staring at her back, then at the slamming door.
and all I can think is,
if being yourself makes you a failure, can you really judge an imposter?
