small bones

you wake up attached,

to a mother, not THEE mother— 

but YOUR mother—a mother;

a fleshy cord cut, and now you’re free—your mind is yours, your body rented, temporary—

you suck nutrition from breasts and bottles—eventually, a cock, a beer—a kiss 

—on certain nights—your birthday usually, you can feel the rip, you can hear the rip, a swingset between her legs—a constant reminder of the pain you caused just by being born—

as if you would’ve chosen this//as if you would’ve agreed to this//happenstance—coincidence—whatever you call it, —

I’m here, and my body is weak from all you’ve denied it—but I feed it milks squeezed from almonds and oats—vegetables from a friend’s garden—protein from animals killed kindly—and on the days I eat wild meat, I am reminded of the feral way in which you birthed me—the taste of primitive red meat—some poor animal who didn’t have a choice but to be born—just like me—

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