here the brickwork is old, its mortar
sunken, depleted veins where
i stumble in my grownup heels.
i’m hesitant, afraid of becoming dead
like my mother; her ghost drowning daily
in self-loathing and cheap beer,
calling twice a week to
remind me to eat.
all i want
is to write, but
to write, i need to rip
out the nerve endings of hardened tongue
and fingertips which grope
blindly with validations
instead of undressing my soul.