Mother Cauldron

I was formed from the yolk
of society, and that’s where
the trouble began. Mother grew

my bones and guts in her cauldron
belly. We drove over the dipping
sunset, clasping at the feathered

canvas. We stuck bottle tops to our
eyelids, blinding ourselves twice more.
I found it hard to breathe within the

rapture of skeletal misery. I play with
fire, and I save myself from this obscene
jelly. I come from the unhinged fringe of

the universe. I am an atom of chaos, but
only now am I a dying spark. A tarantula
gnaws at my shoulder blades. I wanted to

collect his milk teeth. I pined for the dots
of cologne fermenting on his neck. He
longed to have my hair replace hers; the

scorpion tumour with buttons for eyes.
I subvert my own invisibility in utter
denial of the ghost who sang to me in

the waiting room. The bathroom mirror
breaks apart like chocolate. Seven jagged pieces, vertically persistent in their feline ambivalence.

Originally published by JMWW.