I hug my mother most in the kitchen.
She reaches up to wrap her arms
around me, and I lay my head
on her shoulder. We breathe
together, relax into one another.
The oak wood under our feet creaks
with each shift of weight. The kitchen is

warm like her. Though that dead plant sits
in the window, we are full of life.
My mother’s fake green grapes and strands of
ivy weave above our heads;
our own personal jungle.
The red-brown cabinets and
bright yellow lights
shine down around us as we sway,
rubbing each others’ backs with a soft hum.

We fit together: mother, daughter.
Since childhood I have not been afraid
to run to her soft speckled skin and be held
by her, even when I was tall
enough to do the holding myself.
We have the same nose,
same smile,
same droop to our right eye.
Same tendency to accidents
like knife cuts
or oven burns
or trips over nothing.
Who am I
but a part of her?

My sister pads into the kitchen
on tiptoes— a habit she could never break
since a child. I see her quiet eyes
flicker downward,
see her scoot herself away from
my mother’s arms
see her close into herself
instead. She stares at the dead plant.

If her skin were a costume, she would
tear it off and never wear it again.
Instead of my mother’s nose,
she thinks she sees
my father’s stubble.
Not my mother’s dimpled smile
reflected back, but my
father’s Adam’s apple.
When we tell her she is
beautiful, she fiddles with her men-sized shoes.
We cannot convince her to
touch us when she is afraid to touch
herself.

We fit together: mother, daughter, daughter.
We sit at the island counter, playing
MarioKart on the kitchen TV,
talking about nothing really,
but to my sister it is
everything.
Our mother laughs like bells.
Who are we
but a part of her?

How the hell could you hate being
In your own skin
When you’re so
So
Beautiful

What’s image anyway
When all I imagine
Is how gorgeous you are

Shredded gold and silver flakes
it’s all been sold, from land to lakes.
I’m running up quite a bill
stationed up on my window ceil,
bargaining with Bungalow Bill
asking for a discounted thrill.
Vacant roads and silent trees
these heavy loads buckling my knees.
I couldn’t walk one more pace,
not known to finish a race,
I’ll forfeit before taking last place
then blame my undone shoe lace.

Within a half awake state,
I scribbled explanations too late,
they weren’t worthy or close to justified.
I’m just a chaser to bait,
too far behind at this rate,
but I’m sworn to the end so I abide.

A Prism view or black and white,
soft morning dew, or a starry night.
Which one should I prefer,
if they both blend and blur,
I sought the opinion from her
but accepted the first to occur.

I’m under the tree, the one from our seed,
taught me to see but not to read,
so I decipher each calligraphic,
with details too specific,
undesired outcome so prolific
my mind allows me to trick it.

There was more life in the tears
that stood back waiting for years,
only to greet their moment on the floor.
Falling down while nobody steers,
halting the joints and the gears,
and I will cover the space under the door.

We will equally share this burden,
lights off and close the curtain,
I’ll hide my breaths within the thunder.
Hastily halt then proceed to hearten,
and though I’m still very uncertain,
I’ll let doubt pull and drag me under.

I keep peeling off my face and
throwing the skin into the earth
hoping the ritual of burying
can flower a new layer upon me.
All smooth and poreless.
Erased in all the ways I've been taught to long for,
yet somehow retaining features
that some ******* corporation has spoonfed
generations of us into loving.

The headless lady was radiant; her ***** rested on a lightbulb, a silhouette not unlike that of a bee, yet too sturdy to be bothered by the wind. Her arms and head were replaced by a glowing coat hanger, hinting at some tragedy. She must be sought after for all the wrong reasons, by the most depraved of people. How much pain did she have to endure to be so confident in her superficial image? I’d like to see her face one day, when the light shines not on her body, but her mind.

The hand, the crafter, the smith; surely she, too, shares the pain of her image. Oh she is radiant herself, absolutely. I wonder if she feels like the lady of the painting; her body a fluorescent attraction, her head a household tool. I hope she doesn’t feel shallow and ordinary. She is one of the most vibrant people I’ve traded words with. She is a sight to behold when she wields her mind, and with it, pries open the crevice to her soul.