sometimes when my mother talks to me
you can see it flash on her face
and when she remembers she looks at me in surprise
i am a woman now
when i tell her about that night, about the house catching on fire and all these ashes i had to crawl through during the aftermath
she cries
i am a woman now
-y.s
YOU ARE READING
plastic flowers
Poetrylife is never perfect. it's messy and even the most perfect people put on a face. just like plastic flowers, from afar i can look put together but up close i'm everything but. *a collection of poems*
