Mother, I think my insides are decomposing politely. Can you not smell it, or have you grown so used to my rot that you call it “obedience”?

Mother, I’ve become quite a candle burning, devouring, unbecoming so quietly in the darkest corner of this padded home.

You say the house smells holy this way, but I know you only want to mask my sunset scent, the one you condemned as sin.

Mother, there’s a child inside of me still standing outside your door, trying to decide whether to knock or shelve this part of herself completely. She wonders whether she should promise to stop kissing girls so you might finally look her way—finally see her. She wonders if the death of her violet ego would make you notice her at last, or if she should live a little longer just to see if you ever will.

You created a frightened child, Mother. Will my disappearance feel more like grief or relief to you? And will you ever admit the difference when I’m gone?

Art slider by Renee Macalalad