You weren't allowed to bring her up
or talk about her at all.
Not in private, not in public.
Defiant, mean, and emotionally useless,
I pushed all of your buttons
until they broke
or electrocuted me.
So there were rules;
and my tears had given out orders.
You were not to say her name
or tell me what I did not want to hear
when her memory came between us.
But you would bring her up all the same,
and I would press those shiny, tempting,
newly-repaired buttons,
and, of course,
they would break.
Inevitable.
I'd make you so upset,
your gears would creak with metallic tears,
and then I'd remove your metal voicebox.
You'd remain on the couch for days,
your arms and legs removed,
bolts and screws scattered around you,
fallen words you wanted to say to me
but never would.
A surrogate mother sent to rescue
a child who did not want your embrace,
to crush me with the words, "You're not going back to your mom."
In the chilling basement where my skin was unprotected
from the cold boldness of those words
and my tears were pinned to the corners of my eyes.
I know my real mother never really loved me,
but why did you have to bring her up?
End: 12:42 am
Mon. Sept. 7, 09 |
Submission Name: The Memory of My Mother
