i don’t title my emotions
By Candy Cain
mother was a martyr
masking mal-intent in messes
and misconstruing meanings
and leaving us in debted.
of course it’s her heroics that were the main attraction
and not the emotional molotovs obviously thrown across the hall that were her main reactions,
chaining us to channels that churn us to our stomachs
with no way to change the static.
yes, maybe that’s it.
maybe the murder of my mental health is worth more than an
“aint it tragic with the way it happened”
from her mouth that made us gaslit.
from the glaring flaws in her philosophy,
we failed to define what little truths we would find flirting in her circular logic.
and with no way to defy the deafening lies that made the effort to try nothing less than a lie,
i broke my room to splinters in midwinter, pinned her fast in the stomach, and stumbled out into the cinders of snow with a bag of vacuous belongings to figure my own path to plummet.
i’m more than glad i done it.