33. mother,

your sadness is palpable,
it's heavy and tired and i can feel it
as you shuffle around the house, searching for a job
in a field you didn't choose but that your husband deems
good enough while
he drinks bottles of scotch
and complains that your daughter is settling for jobs that aren't
good enough and
would you stop putting so much damn salt
on the fish and fuck it i'll just eat more bread this dinner isn't
good enough,
a phrase you've now
internalized.

mother,
your sadness is aromatic,
and i wish it wasn't because it smells like blood
and i make excuses to go into your bathroom
to brush my teeth
so i can search for red stains on your bath towels
and find you crying in bed
like that time i rushed into your room
cause clay was waiting outside to take me to a movie
and aren't 15-yr-old girls supposed to be the ones
sobbing in their bed, dragging razors to their forearms,
watching red stains grow on thin white sheets
because no one will listen to them
and

mother,
your sadness is infuriating,
blaming your husband
for not letting you invest in dreams you have
of owning a farm and selling those
strange worms that you whisper to
while they digest my apple peels,
blaming the government for the lack of jobs
and how they outsourced a job
you hated anyways,
blaming everyone else because you're too scared of change
to live your dreams and you're too scared of failure
to take a change and you're too scared of everything
and


mother,
i finally get you out of the house and we get coffee
and i try to tell you about things i'm excited about and
maybe 24 will be my best year yet and
i'm starting a magazine and
don't tell dad he would just deem it not
good enough but your eyes kind of stare off
into a steam rising from the parking lot
because thank God texas is finally getting some rain
and you ask me
if I know what tiny houses are,
because dad made you throw away the strange worms
and no one else will listen
and yes

mother,
buying some land and living in a tiny house with your worms
does sound like a dream.