“the quote is as follows: the truth is that no child can save her mother.

“the quote is as follows: the truth is that no child can save her mother.

i’d debated squirreling it away into “love me”, making it it clear that the poetry was that of lost childhood and of lost mothers moreso than that of lost love. I didn’t, because i was worried— I’d hoped, more— that she’d read it.

enjoy it.

take a copy and pass her hands over the pages and see the blood on the lettering.

to notice the pins in the butterflies and to regard them as an investigator regards a clue, as a painter studies anatomy.

finding the secrets.

uncovering the mystery.

I hope that she didn’t because its not her style of finding.

or that she wanted to forget the rift between us,

or to plaster over the cracks with cement and forget them and not just because she regarded my passions as one regards potions from a 6-year-old.

Charmingly juvenile.

Cutely sincere.

Dangerous, if indulged in or if the habit persisted.

I hope that, at least, it wasn’t because of apathy.

Thats nice dear

That’s good for you how interesting now eat your asparagus have you done your homework yet?

I love my mom like you love a lying lover or a pet you never quite wanted but took anyway out of obligation.

bitterly.

It used to be simply, and wholly, as it should be, but things change.

daughters become sons and mothers say they did their darnedest to love you in spite of the trouble but you make it difficult, so difficult, and did the one I held and carried for 9 months have to be the dud and in time you’ll come to love your body and you can’t change your name because your grades are abysmal these potatoes are lovely (please) wash the dishes.

things got butter and my grades got worse.

am I lazy or depressed?

am I unmotivated for a cause?

it burns, in the back of my throat among the good company of kindred, dreadful, tired questions I will never ask because it won’t be pretty.

Through it all, I still want desperately to save my mother. TWD. 2021.

the second poem goes like this:

I killed someone 5 years ago today.

she didn’t mind.

she had been waiting for it for some time.

i stalked around in her skin, before i did it.

I set up her bedroom

left the walls beige

I kept her safe and happy for as long as I could manage

but not for her.

she wanted to die

to wither away

flake off into the wind and leave

a man laid bare and himself in her wake.

To be shucked off like snakeskin

to be consumed and encorperated [sic] like the snake’s rat

to become the snake.

I kept her around longer than I should have.

I took her place, and if people notice they pretend not to

or smile at me with cloying pity

with a raw and mirthful sort of indulgence

of favors

the stink of it is sticky.

Interesting that the changeling’s desires

are often those of true acceptance.

please look at me

stare into my eyes and know who I am

and most importantly

love me for it

recognize me

and we will bask in her blood together.

the third image is a collage, with various pieces of art and pictures stuck together with various text over top. I’m not aware of all of the sources, but standouts include a portrait of annalise michel, photos from the lizzie borden house crime scene, a coat of arms constructed of bones, a genderbent edit of cinderella, various people lying down (including but not limited to ophelia in her body of water), and text from Left at London’s blue as a bruise and Sufjan Steven’s come on feel the illinoise.