Mama’s blasphemous heart feels every heartbreak three times as strongly.
one for each of her tragedies.
never say I love you unless they love you more
just in case they wrangle your heart. just in case they bruise it.
my grandmother has always been red-blue colorblind in the way
she distinguishes heartbreak from love. Perhaps a century
slowly eroding at what is left of her marriage
mama cries the same kind of blood from her eyes dreading
the day her mother’s memories of her will slowly disappear too.
drastic and disastrous are hands vicious and pernicious
clawing their way into crimson hearts crippled and naive.
motor oil and embers have grown to be her friends
because that way- one day- none of her will be left.
combustion and tragedy sit like a raja and a rani on their thrones
wondering if you can see past their blaze,
wondering if her sobs are loud enough to silence it.
she says I was born of a desire to be environed in maple words
that my lips cannot taste the sugar
cavities decorate the bridges that connect my heart to my hands,
threatening to disintegrate before I learn
how to close my legs regardless of the weight in my thighs.
she reminds me of the wrists vicious and pernicious
and tells me the story of how they stole her innocence.
How they stole mine too.