MY MOTHER'S CHILD

 My mother's child dreams of Paris cafes and seagulls. 

My  mother's child writes suicide notes, not love poems.

My mother's child eats pancakes and drinks juice.

My mother's child brushes her teeth twice a day but still has lies worth pricking in her mouth.

My mother's child selects long sleeved shirts on shopping, desperately trying to hide red lines. 

My mother's child fails to pronounce her name in a crowded room, her sweat watering yellow sunflowers.

My mother's child draws doodles in the back of her notebooks. 

My mother's child goes to library everyday because it is her escape.

My mother's child trash talk to an instagram friend to find solace, failing.

My mother's child kissed a dog and turned herself into a bitch.

My mother's child tend caterpillars in a Banarasi saree, daring of butterflies. 

My mother's child ignores men reaching to touch her small breasts. 

My mother's child knows grief is shaped as shadows in a dim light.

My mother's child misses her wide toothy grin on a summer after noon. 

My mother's child is

a female according to biology,

radio active uranium for chemistry, 

an elegy, a gravity failed apple.

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