My Greatest Fear Is Turning Into My Mother

Childhood was boxes and crates and hope chest and bunk bed and pillows and sleepless nights and keep the light on for reading and utility bills and cable bills and mortgage and no insurance until 16 and scraped elbows and chipped teeth and busted head from softball and it doesn’t look like you need stitches and sewing patterns and newspapers and drawings from preschool and expired Farmer Jack ads and birth certificate somewhere around here and holes in walls and no room to walk and cigarette air and black-ring tub and is that a roach and dog and catcatcat and hairy couch and hairy chair and hairballs and dust balls and moth balls and broken Bissell and five-foot trophies and perfect attendance awards and Lifetime originals and NCIS and please record The Nanny and crusted pans and sticky pots and food bank beans and mayonnaise sandwiches and first kiss and first handjob and first blowjob and first bruise when Dad finds out and

man knees and man hands and man breath and man beer and man vodka and man against man and tantrums and bipolar episodes and 9-1-1 and suicide and crying before school and growing up fast and holding onto too much and

can’t move and can’t breathe and can’t wait to leave and

hoarder and 

mother.

 

 

 

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