My mother reads my diary now,
wonders where did I learn all the abuses from.
How my words are never quiescent,
spewing vocabularies she didn’t mix in the honey that I licked upon birth.
She breaks her existence into clouds,
liquifies vapour of my fury in shapes and filigrees.
She looks at my hair tucked into the gutter of my diary,
nibbles cities to understand —
how my hair knows not a shape,
a countenance, a given recipe, hair twirled by a boy,
depth of the beauty she holds in her stomach from her mother.
She plucks out hair with a follicle of adhesive for me.
Mother watches me screech through the fringes of a book,
tries to burn all the leather belt loudness that I am home to,
flinches as I hold her astray
hold her blood
Where did I learn all this silence from?
How did I learn to change homes so quick,
yet found the perfect curtains for all of them?
She wonders where do I conceal
the loudness of my foot, but never asks to follow