3 am
never invite anyone over at 3 am. not even shapes behind your eyes.
nobody likes a loud crier.
the smallest one reminds you: “we’ll never be those kids again.”
another one murmurs: “you abandoned me first. why would i chase after your car? and stop putting words in my mouth.”
and this is not new at all. she was always nicer when you two talked in your head.
one of them smells like cigarettes and the cigarettes smell like silence and guilt.
the whole room feels like a confessional booth and that’s why you don’t smoke on couches, ‘cause you weren’t raised catholic and you don’t know how to use those things.
it’s not your fault that you were born a bastard, you didn’t ask to not be what your mother envisioned as she sculpted you from dust, but both of those got an older woman to scoff at you.
a lighter flickers.
your mother thinks her hair is curly ‘cause of a bad perm when she was 20. you’ve seen her pics as a teenager, sitting on the floor dressed like madonna (probably why your grandfather has that thin white line on his ch. est)her hair was curly then.
her mantra is, “mama’s is always right.”
since you were a child, “mama’s always right.”
she knew you’d get hurt if you ran over the gravel. she told you not to roll down that hill. she knew your friends weren’t good.
she says, “if i ever do anything wrong you can tell me”. but she can’t do anything wrong. mama’s always right. mama’s scream echoes in your forehead if you drop the corner of a blanket when you fold the laundry.
the smallest shape hands you a letter. you laugh and nod awkwardly. pairing the spares never works.
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