She wore emptiness,
and I condemned her mantle, as I had
Jehovah-god
and all the men possessed by
devil’s hands.

And
I convicted
her—

Murder
of the
Self.

She wore emptiness,
and never learned one goddamned lesson. Sometimes
fists make
poorly teachers;
maybe mine’ve made a difference. Maybe
I
should’ve beaten her, too.

Purple was her favorite color:
symptom of her
madness.

She wore emptiness,
and I wish I’d stripped her
bare
of
all—
before the world,
in face of Hell and eyes of
Heaven.

I wish I’d screamed her truths.
Those gagging truths inside my mouth,
behind my teeth and
tiger crouching,
taunting my unwilling
throat.

I wish I’d taken emptiness
and made it into
hope.

I need some fucking hope,
but
I
wear
emptiness
in
her
stead. And
what honor is there in taking up her mantle?
 
Mama,
I’m sorry.
I couldn’t do no better.

© 2019…