Smitty (they/them) | Entertainment & Creatives Editor
give me love, mother. before it’s buried with the white noise from your tv screen. when you’re asleep, after i’ve come home from a long night of loud music and louder trees, i try to step around that creaky floorboard by your door. i believe that grinding myself down to static is better than trying to find what’s missing between us.
all we ever had was more mumble and less
talk, mother. less eyes and face and what i did
today; what you did yesterday. so when
your eyes open, shouldn’t this be how
i finish the poem? shouldn’t i try to try?
to say something?
give me love, mother. even though i could never sit through it. my voice, the hot springs. my chest, the tired strings and percussions. where could i start to let you in? i’ve burned so many bridges that i still tried to cross.
what if yours is the last one, mother?