a quiet stream of denial

I am tired of not being the beautiful self I know I could be,

so I've resorted to lying about my conditions,

denying my urges,

feeling my cravings disappear as I go

and I don't care.

people weren't built to understand the way

shame operates on me.

so as long as there's no shame,

just a quiet stream of denial,

it'll be fine.

I can continue lying until is not a lie anymore.

I know where I'm going,

I don't need anyone to follow.

the mother of mothers

the mother of mothers of mothers,

she's the eyes that see,

she's the pain that we feel

she is all of it,

all of it because nobody knows and does pain

like her.

there's such grace, a grace unknown to many,

she wakes up in the morning and combs her hair with violence,

does her make up with patience,

irons her clothes,

watches the time go back riding shotgun while I drive,

still never loses track of her performance.

she's got an idea of the world she lives in

yet she doesn't know where it is.

she thinks people think too little of her,

and too often —

nothing further from the truth.

she's the mother of all, with a warm hand,

a perfumed embrace,

a sweet goodbye.