i was on my way
to work when i heard
the broken voice
of a saddened and abandoned
feral kitten.

broken, damaged, scared
like i had once been
when i was the size
of my father's
cupped palms.

when my mother left me
out in the frozen winter
which was still
warmer than her
frigid heart.

two drinks in, and
she was mother of the year.
four drinks in, and
her eyes changed shape and color.
six killed all kinship,
all love, all parental
boundaries.

"Shut up, you little ******!" she'd say
when i'd already learned
to stay quiet but
what's that last word?

my mother was a different color
and really quite furious
that i never moved
to the back
of her ******.

i was the rosa of her womb
refused to do and spoke
before spoken to.
when she pushed and hollered
for my unearned love
i outright refused.

i'd learned to read
by the age of three
and did well to ignore
by the age of four.
i'd learned that books
tend to lie a little less
than mothers do,
and hurt a little less,
too.

so i'd read quietly inside
the library of my mind
while she'd be losing
hers.

reciting passages from
psych books at the age of ten
it's not her fault, i'd read,
she's sick.
it's not my fault,
or is it?

like that kitten i'd crossed
i'd forgotten what
a hug felt like,
tucked under mother's warmth.
i'd only known that defense was right
when madness began
to swarm.