words from the angel feather quill

my mother’s anger is buried inside of my stomach, planted like seeds, a flower blooming, petals curled in the gaps between my ribs

she reaches her hand in and grabs a handful of the petals, staining her hands with my viscera.

she feeds me the petals, they taste like blood and sugar and venom.

they taste like the smoke of her favorite cigarettes, yellowing my teeth

they taste like every word ive swallowed to make sure i would have a place to sleep tomorrow

she shoves them into my mouth, long painted nails scratching the back of my throat

my cries are muffled between the flowers and her hands, my voice is nearly gone from the pain in my throat, but i manage to squeak out a question, or maybe it’s a plea

“why mother?”

i sob, trying to stop my teeth from sinking into her flesh, trying not to bite the hand that feeds me

she smiles, jagged yellowed rows of teeth between her soft lips