my mother’s perfume
smells like the broken dreams lying in her stomach,
dormant. without warning it can hatch pterodactly
wings against the lining of her skin;
sometimes it pierces through her arms
like voodoo dolls pins
and she lets the metal twist
in her muscles, punishing herself
for loving a man who was too busy loving everybody else.
she says it keeps her pores sore.
she says each twist in her gut
reminds her she is irreparably broken.
she say it keeps her breathing.
she doesn’t know it suffocates me in the process.