Shame Was A Thing Invented By My Mom
She died in that hospital bed
after I was born.
But I still find her body
in different places.
Sometimes in the bathroom.
Sometimes in the kitchen.
Once, in my room,
lying in my bed.
I lay next to her
and held my breath.
Tried to hear her heart,
but I only heard hell.
Voices, like the devil,
speaking in tongues.
I could only make out
the words evil and run.
My hands feel heavier
with every word I type.
I look in the mirror sometimes
and have to stop myself
from breaking the glass.
Some days at school
my teacher waits until after class
and asks if I’m doing okay.
I tell her to mind her business.
I don’t talk to people
unless I’m yelling
or crying.
And I only cry when I’m angry.
There are things
moving inside my body
that should stay still.
I don’t know how to stop
this burning feeling,
so I learn to make
other things burn.
I leave piles of ash
everywhere I go.