Play, Pause, Replay

the scar behind my ear

There's a rush of the green sea light 

on the oil painting of my lost mother.

I can hear the waves from a distance.

The taste of blood, the paint on my shirt,

the scar behind my ear that no one

talks about, the growing ache in the blues of

our evening talks.

There's a part of my mother

that never realized that we cried over her.

She never saw the burns and bruises

on my marigold skin or the violet lines

across my cheeks.

Were you a human, Mom? Or was it

something in your DNA?

The dust has settled in the cracks of my

thousand-year-old crevice.

Dapples of blood around the bathroom sink,

Drabbles of sad lies around the sprig of rosemary,

Death of pretty colors in the wine-stained mouths.

There's a dull line that gives birth to

a dead flower no one talks about.

So I bandage the heart lying on the cold marble

with an old cotton cloth that

I once vomited my brain matter on.

There's a bitter afterglow coming

through the small window.

It makes me want to squeeze the leftover flesh

in my brain and burn it alive.

So I claw my nails into my palms until

they glow in pink.

My Mom doesn't come home and burn my scar, anymore.

It's growing so fast. 

So I keep the bruise alive behind my ear

and claw it with the trimmed edges of my black nails.

There's a bullet between my eyes, something

I can't remove any more.

So I scrub my skin harder until I see the red skies.

I think you were a human, Mom.

You lost your mind way before us.

The memories don't burn me because 

I can't feel anything anymore.

The dead flower that grew from the dull line

is now under my feet, getting washed away

in the yellow bathroom water.

So I sip from the bandaged heart,

the warm blood filling the rotten

corners of my filthy mouth.

– will you come home and flick a lighter against my scar?