mother, mother, mother, she knows best. she brushed my hair and whispered into my ear.
she painted the satin lipstick on my lips; a burning crimson that matched hers, mother knows best.
she sliced the ivory floor with the daggers on her feet as she reached her encase of jewels. she opened it with her pointed claws before the little ballerina began to sing; mother knows best.
her clenched fingers did bear a rope of lustrous pearls, she embraced it around the fruitless skin of my neck, gently straining it as i breathlessly praise, "mother knows best".
she sits me up on the glass stool, straightening the creases on my gown fit for royalty. our bleak eyes fissure the mirror forth as she lingers the blade on the ridges of my cheeks.
the blade a quill in her hand as she carves letters on the skin beneath my trembling throat. mother knows best.
the floor soaked traces of blood — our blood, for she was me, and I, her.
mother always knew best. but the worst she knew better. mother always knows best. mother, mother, mother, did you know better?
YOU ARE READING
SKIN
Poetryas strong as the bones beneath, the skin of mine i am, embraced with scars, stripes, constellations, and yours as strong as skin I am. { cover drawn by yours truly }
