tw // self harm

 

Picture this. September, 2020. Exiting

a tepid red summer. The house thicker than

blood. That summer I scratched at my knuckles

like lottos until skin split and wept like

warped hardwood flooring. That summer my mother

​

asked me to pull her white hairs out. I thought

she was vain but now I think she was lonely.

She said Find the roots. I was so scared

of hurting her. And when my mother said,

You’re making my hair fall out. Standing

​

over my bed bitter like a memory. I thought I

was allowed to be the petty one. I look up

at my mother and see her the way she sees

 

my future. Sepia-thin dusty-Western coming-

of-age. IMAX. Panorama.