Why did you say those words, Mama? Why? Was it because you hated the stories I told? Was it because my grammar was flawed and my language too bold? Was it because I asked you to respect me and to see my aim? It is probably because you don’t know me.
Those words they didn’t cut. I would have liked that better. No, they grew stronger in the aftertaste. Sour and bitter, cold as a pavestone, just like that. They bored and hollowed and dug at me. They were hungry words that chewed at my stomach. They supped at my soul. Mama, are you listening?
Your comforts are sweet, when they come, and your skin smells like baby powder. I know you. You like the Bee Gees, the seventies, and you hate all things spicy. I love the feeling of your hand. So many things happened to me that I never planned. Mama, are you listening?
I yell and I cry, I’m stupid like that, but you laugh. Maybe I look funny. Maybe I would laugh too if I saw myself. Eyes like tomatoes and a stomach of hungry words. What a Divine Comedy I must make in my paper shackles and ink bonds laid out on the half shell, vulnerable, exposed, and not very tasty. But words, I don’t think they care, they will eat anyone they set their mind to.
Will they pick you? I don’t know, but not me again, I’m a harden bone. Nothing here left to eat.