My mother is try­ing to die in the other room

ANNMARIE O’CON­NELL

Room Magazine - - NAGRA -

The other room is tiny. Brown fur­ni­ture lines the walls so I can barely stand by her bed­side. I can barely fit in the room my mother is try­ing to die in. I can’t af­ford the car

I am driv­ing. My mother told me I shouldn’t drive be­cause I wasn’t God­saved and I was al­ways sip­ping on some­thing.

I can’t re­mem­ber or hold on to any­thing my mother said al­ways in cir­cles

You have tragedy in your blood she told me

I am good at lis­ten­ing in cir­cles.

I can tell you that my mother gave birth to me and that I was the moon like re­ally some­thing when I gushed out of her body with­out some way to es­cape my blood, tiny par­ti­cles of botched DNA that rum­ble through me, be­neath my neck, in the cuffs of my shoul­ders.

I am wait­ing to be worn in love that makes me fall to my knees be­fore her, dis­man­tled so quickly

I am the parts she made me.

I am wait­ing for some­thing to ar­rive that never ar­rives.

I can’t even fit in the room my mother is try­ing to die in. My bru­tal blood puls­ing through my veins, los­ing on pur­pose los­ing ev­ery­thing.

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