mother

your hands
are wrinkled
and tired
and calloused
more so with every touch
almost as if
your youth
was dissolving
into me
like a happy pill
in water
effervescent
questioning
its own existence
while giving away
what little it had.

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Miniature Prose

nothing can hurt more

than seeing your child suffer

watching her cry at 4 am

and knowing there is nothing you can do

watching her rip apart her body

piece by piece

over and over

like that boy who thought he owned her

and she –

she who believed it.