Poetry / Dirty Room
I hide my dirty laundry and dishes
under the bead
until they drew in the ants
I become OCD once a month:
tossing dishes in the sink,
hiding the mold growing inside,
washing my clothes,
throwing whites and darks together
without bleach,
20 minutes of vacuuming,
organizing a heap of belongings,
a whole day lost in shit.
“Turn your music down!”
my sweat drips, sizzling at my mother’s voice
“We listen to you Enya all day!”
Steps shake the floor
my mother charges in
and she tosses my things in the garbage
“Mom, I’m cleaning my room!”
SLAP!
“Your room isn’t yours.”
Yellow wallpaper with houses, birds,
and fruit trays: beige and boring
Her eyes bug out
Her teeth grind
preparing to pop out
“You wanna go a round?”
Her face turns red
and twists together
Charging at me, fists clenched,
she grabs my long hair
dragging me into the hall
I fall onto the dingy blue carpet,
rug burns clench my knees
I curl, fetal and quiet
A kick collapses me
and I lick the carpet fibers
“Shut up or I’ll give you something to cry about.”
The snarling beast spits,
slithering to her dirty dishes
I whimper under the water splashing.
Pain hammers into my groin as
I clutch myself
shaking, wondering
Will I ever have children?
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Jees, too bad you live in the Bay Area or you would move out. Is this all one event? My lord girl! I can’t believe any mother would be so psychotic, I mean you hear about it on the news, but….I can’t believe she kicked you to the ground and who wants to listen to Enya anyway. She is good for Yoga, but I want some Metallica while I’m cleaning my mess of a room. I hope she gets punished for what she did to yah.
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