She is free
She lives her life as a book with intricate pages
I can smell them on her. I smell books on my mother. She reeks of their shrieking, pongs of their pulsing.
I cry her a book
With my tears, I mold a wet life for us
My mother makes me cry because she is in me
When I whisper, her eyes close
When she whispers, I become still.
Mother, when I was small, you had broad arms and strong wrists for me
You still carry me in a variety of ways.
Now, I want to carry you – your body, your heart, your soul
I will make myself so strong that I can carry it all – on my back, with my arms, inside my mouth
The day you placed me outside of you, I never wanted to let go.
I pulled, you pushed.
You pulled and I pushed.
The friction caused a dictionary.
And we rewrote our souls. Our soul twins.
I’ll never let you go, wherever you are…
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