mother lives in a vicious womb. every time she fumbles, the flesh underneath
her canine comes off. mother is rage personified
for she has lived half of her life with a person who erased forgiveness from her persona. my mother asks me how did i become so forgiving.
i see her folding the worn out clothes in our drawer on her birthday,
no balloons bloated, no cherries on the table. her pink irises were
once tulips. when my mother was a daughter, she was loved better.
the deadliest knives are in her hands but no one's dead yet.
so when my mother asks me how did i become so forgiving,
i tell her it's hereditary. forgiveness is my 207th bone,
the one that broke off from my mother's cardiac skeleton.
crazy backstory: when i was around 12 or 13,
i used to have severe backache so my
doctor told me i was born with an extra bone
in my vertebra and that it was very normal.
many people have it, most of them don't
even realise they have it and the rest
live with the pain.
