Mother’s Words
Her words are boulders that break
the stillness of my inner ocean
rippling outward, endlessly outward.
Twelve years on this earth,
and already, “slut” clings to me
a weight I never chose,
a garment stitched from shame,
a second skin I cannot peel away.
The fever comes
as relentlessly as a wildfire,
devouring the fragile pine forest of my childhood.
The thermometer climbs,
each degree a rung
on the ladder of my panic.
But her eyes don’t meet mine.
Her voice cuts sharper than
the sickness in my veins:
“Get out of my sight.”
Her words, more toxic than the fever,
seep into the cracks of me,
poisoning what’s left.
Ten years old,
and already, “lazy pig”
is the name of my reflection.
Not a daughter, not a child.
Not someone deserving of tenderness.
Just something discarded,
something stained,
something unworthy of love.