I am not like you

If time has wings – they are clipped.

Severed by the cold steel

of my mother’s sewing shears–

in my hand, in my hair.

Snip. Snip. Snip.

Uneven. Undone. Coinciding chaos.

You made me hate endings–

so I could shave it all off.

I cut my hair so I don’t cut my wrists.

I look like you but I am not like you.

If time is a mirror – seven gothic years will haunt.

A girl with your eyes on the other side of the glass–

throwing fists that break, shatter.

Shouting feverishly, “don’t look at me!”

She grew tired of imitating wet sleeves,

salt skin with swollen overflowing sinks.

Crawling into the sleeping bags

under tired eyes – to slumber the years away.

I sleep too much but I still wake up.

I act like you but I am not like you.

If time is a bandage – the stick has withered dry.

Resembling the black flowers on stone.

No ointment, no promising potion

quickens healing. What a trivial pursuit.

The medicine of laughter–

fake, forced, foreign. Blood fresh as the soil.

Heels grow cold. Fire hangs. Fingers are counted.

Yet, nothing changes.

I bleed endlessly but I still redress the wounds.

I hurt like you but I am not like you.

If time is money – it is splashed out.

Cold cuts, cards, casseroles, caskets.

Spending the color of the grass

to dig a hole in it.

Tracing the fault line with fingers,

trying to pin a name to it.

Exchanging bills for booze

until the bank and bottle run dry.

I drink recklessly but I know my limits.

I search for love like you but I am not like you.

If time was short – it was your doing.

Not taken. Not stolen.

Calculated. Organized. Designed.

What a joke it is

to surpass your age. Insulting.

Your shoulder blades like angel wings

with my birth date tattooed on the right–

floating in the tub that I used to fill with bubbles.

I think of dying too, mom, but I don’t.

I will never be like you.