She was a beautiful woman dragging a crippled foot and I was that foot. I was bricks sewn into the hem of her clothes, I was a steel dress
like a kid kicked out of class. humiliated and free.
The word rattled in my head like rocks in an oatmeal box.
You were my home, Mother. I had no home but you
she was such a bad actress. she never said her lines rite, it was something perverse in her nature. and wat was her line anyway?
Find someone who will tremble for your touch, someone whose fingers are a poem.