fragrant

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.