moms and dogs.

Ive been surprisingly unphased,
numb until I taste the salt of tears tip toeing down my cheeks.
confused I wipe wet eyelashes.
and its not when Im lying in bed or in the shower like usual.
its not like when Im broken, face contorted, consumed.
like a protective filter, my brains not telling me my emotions.
unburdened and ignorant, until my body subtly lets go,
my shirt collar left damp,
nose pink, eyebrows raised.
an unwarranted shower of tears.
an unwarranted liberation of something that was nothing.
this foreigner within me. my body is a traitor,
or a big sack of sedatives.
at least Im ignorant,
alone when I tasted the salt of tears,
confused, fingers wiping wet eyelashes.

texas, and bedrooms.

I found my childhood in the attic,
a bandanna around my face,
hot breath against my cheeks.
where dark spiders and dust mites invaded
the space small hands, attention use to.
each deformed doll, and spongy
cardboard box deteriorating beneath
my fingers, unleashing dust and tears but no emotion.
disgusted and allergic.
until Im slowly remembering the texture of a
blanket, the fading illustrations of this book,
and they hold me in a trance.
texas, and bedrooms,
simple mornings and young mothers.
good days I remember forgetting,
when I had to separate the old and new.
when I had to cope.
but Im remembering them today.
Im remembering who I was.