Shadows writhe on familiar walls
that’ve held you in for all this time.
Insufferably together.
A flame dares to pierce the dark
between you. It lights up her face–
a blotchy, tired thing.
Yellow paper-skin rips and tears
around her swollen cheeks and sunken eyes.
She won’t look at you,
so she watches the flame.
Her mirror eyes glow and burn,
determined to un-see you.
Her trembling fingers curl absently
around a bottle that isn’t there.
You think of asking her
to smash it against the wall,
and thrust those jagged glass ends
right through your gut.
But she’s already gathered the shards.
She cups them, gently, in bruised palms,
and swallows them one by one.
You both know it’s killing her,
but her insides are done screaming.
So are you.
When she’s finished
she smiles a wide, toothy grin.
For a moment, she is Mom again.
But her smile is different now– farther away.
She extracts a glass shard from her liver,
and holds it out to you:
a peace offering from the woman
who doesn’t love you enough
to try to love herself too.
And, goddamn her, you take it.
You name it Resentment,
and you put it in your pocket.
With a breath she doesn’t have,
she blows out the flame.
You leave and take Resentment with you.
And later, you hold it tightly in your hands
when you’re alone.
You rename it Longing.
You put it back in your pocket,
and think of yellow.