Work Text:
holding myself like a baby
like I don't think I was ever held
easier to blame my mother
than it would be to blame myself
despite the voids in the foundation
we both have to live with the house
cold, draughty, lonely, and crumbling
around us we ignore the sounds
fill its cavernous rooms up with soft things
candles, baked bread, feathered down
throw the doors open, receive you
so it sings with the chorus of crowds
paint it and paint it and paint it again
reinvent until money runs out
shake out the rugs and the curtains
until all the bad stuff comes out
this work it is endless and daunting
and burns in your heart and foul mouth
know this, wretched daughter: I'm like you
and like me you'll cut your way out