Mum’s the Word
Like the rain-wrung tome held fast to my
chest, the organic one toyed, or more specifically tombed with, by my
mother’s hot saltwater balloon, I melt in my
unacknowledged tear bomb, covered head to toe by my
otherer, through cookbook after cookbook of raging songs intended to glow shut my
womb-made diary with a silence-edged slam, because after all, she, my
mum’s the word, hush-hush. Harsh-harsh! No-big-deal-snake-slashed.
Taking out tin soldiers named Toddler and Tantrum from tight-chested drawers, my
mum, the word of words, rewords my shown scar, now shone bleach bright, blighting my
rosé-soaked bed of self-loved roses, stamped damp through sheer force by my
denier’s fire-coloured tower. Flame-flame. Frame-frame! Far-too-sensitive-fox-blamed.
As tear-spiked confetti rain down then reign down on my
injurer’s clog-mouthed clock, timed apologies wound tight, my
shutter-upper seals my feelings’ fates shut, making them my
inmates, frauds, friars and games. Shush, her ungraceful child. My
inner addict has to end. Nothing’s happened. Be just. Just pretend my
mummified memories are dreads. Drop deaf. Don’t dare. Dump-your-sorrow-deer-drowned.
My loose ends – it’s time to let them be themselves, to free them from:
my throat whose hairy patches used to be braided by:
my leash owner. It’s time for me to take it all back from:
my mum because: she’s not really my word; I am:
my feelings’ whole world; I am:
my own: acceptance.