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in the month of may, so many words die in your mind; there's no space for ambulance sirens anymore. no sanctuary in the bottled can you store the fungus-ridden bread your mother had the last bite of in; yet, you store it. anger and salt come hand in hand as you toss a far too salty omelette in the bin. you never asked your mother how to cook. you always knew she would be there to have the perfect balance of salt in your omelette. you spill the tea on the acceptance letter from the college you dreamt of and the broken light over your dining table does not bother you anymore. the pungent smell of iron from the back of your head has not dissipated yet. the seventh letter to your lover who doesn't know you feel sorry is lying rotten in your drawer. the golden earring your mother asked you to wear so your piercing does not vanish is still dangling.
and they say, you have been amnesic all along. there's no mother you've been talking to. it has always been you. so you say they're right even if the worst slice of omelette is still in your mouth.
