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Poetry & Prose | December 5, 2016

the first time i came back after moving out, ma was devastated that we no longer bled at the same time. we bled together for 9 years, 9 years i spent hating her and the way the moon tied us together; of hoarse throats and flashing eyes and hard fucking pills to swallow. that unperturbed pulse crawling, cough drops, charcoal, and mist, together, together, bolted. steel silent dislocated bodies: i fled california and left her, her insides hollow, where i once lay, silk marrow denigrated. now when i go home my mother no longer bleeds the way i do. it is scarce and painful and inextricably familiar, like our time together, some thorn on a rotting rosebud. i’m bleeding now, and every time my mom bleeds, she wonders if it’s the last time, and i don’t think she actually feels any relief. i wonder what we will have in common anymore, her absolved, my insides shedding themselves