The Lessons in Letting Go

i am shaken like personality
differences between the bone
structure and
the damaged nerves on
my hips;

( she no longer smiles
with dying skin cells because now
her child keeps
whispering lies in her ears
and she can pretend,
everything is okay )

i can't beg to be scratched open
when there's nothing inside,
nothing but
impulse and mould –

the perfect ones to replace each
other when one
wants to sleep with its
head drowning in the
ocean of wintry breath and secrets

( she breathes in oncetwice
because patience is the only strength
she has left )

i scrawl words all over
my skin and in the corners of
they are mine but they
aren't hushed anymore –

( she never had to forgive
when understanding took place in front
of hurt –
but forgetting is a
different thing altogether;

the question is,
whose fault is it – parent or
child – when one breaks
down into bite-sized pieces? )

i cut open my palm
to show her i don't have
child in my blood anymore.