“did you know that when i was seventeen my sister tried to kill herself,” says my mother to the walls.

“she was 22 and she told me after that it was quieter in the hospital, a highway of wires erupting from her veins. she said that she remembers everything in fragments.”

“our mother rubbing her hands together till it burns only so she could feel something. our father arguing with the doctor outside, then suddenly collapsing into a chair, exhaustion written into his skin. and me, counting the number of petals in the glass vases on the window sill.”

“i remember there were posies and daisies and tigerlilies and violets, but not a single rose.”

the walls don’t answer, but my mother didn’t expect them to.

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you are ugly

and

you have

b

a

d

taste.

you do not 

deserve

this.

fuck 

y’all

niggas.

thou hair black as night

thou eyes green as blades of grass

please have sex with me