There is no dying this
time for you,
mother.
Echoing, my childish existence plunges
en route to a cuttingly saccharine downfall.
Cooking your holiday feast
met its end. My fiasco disrupting senses
of calm on more than one
occasion, though never this savory, enough
for me.
A glistening potion, administered
to fill a life without him. You pushed
and kneaded him, I needed him like
dreidel cookie batter kneads soft
to the touch. Reminiscence aids the ivy, green
with poison. A clear channel of subtle
healing, flowing through plasma releases my
wild, endorphine-inhabiting pleasures.
Yours melted by the smooth gelt
dampened under the weight of no
medical insurance. An indemnity towards health
was not promised as a parting gift, from him
to you. Your child supported less.
A metaphorical death so deep into
its grave, the sting of Miss Morphine
lent my corpse the sole decision
of accepting. A ride upon a halfheartedly
lit miasma, entering the world
of otherworldly itches—unrushed
to any interruption.
A moment murdering this subdued
twinge. Like a vulture possessing candor, she
caressed my aches never remissive towards
my fears.
No clear or crystal chance for parole, not for you or him.
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