17/30


My mother calls me her dearest,

Kisses my hand and squeezes it gently.

She swears I’m surviving solely on her prayers

Because she’s not convinced there’s a quarter of enough food in my body

Not with all the hollowness in my collarbones

 

I have hit a roadblock in trying to use language to navigate my feelings

The same words that paves way, stands in my way

How do I distract myself from myself in order to free myself?

How do I use language against itself?

What comes after I have puked out the last sentence of distress?

 

Mother said to eat a little more

For Will shall take to Strength’s heels

So I buy time with unbalanced paragraphs and reluctant doodles,

Wait for the pressure that sparks the gag reflex

So I can vomit it all out.

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