short piece on turning things into horror:

I stood in front of him, a bottled-shaped Skelton topped in golden hair. the apartment walls were bare in old empty photographs. my nails were chipping and scrubbing dirt out of hallway cracks to make this feel more like home. 

Hungry Mother

 In most of my writing, I talk about my mother like a sour taste, you just can't shake. I blamed her for my inability to feel fresh or catered. To be the freshly pressed linens with pose fingernails that smelled like Lana del Reys lyrics in the summertime. I forget more often than not my mother wasn't always placed in a home with stucco walls. She too was born with a suitcase and a DIY self-care attitude. She won't braid my hair and she won't care to learn. 

When reading Pamela Anderson's bio. She wrote something i couldn't seem to just skip by, like the usual "my mother, myself. my father, my mirror" hypnotic good parental bullshit quote. 

she said:

"The best advice my parents gave me

was no advice.

They admitted to knowing nothing

of my world,

my journey

My dreams, passions, and purpose.

They had no way of bailing me out.

They listened,

They worried with me at times,

They loved me the best they could

But it was up to me to find my way through.

When

I understood that,

I was even more free to

create my oven life.

It was a blessing.'

This quote sank to the bottom of me and floated around my gut for days. I lost my voice a long time ago trying to force my parents into understanding, I expanded my vocabulary and catered to my cause with any available literature (music, slam poetry, art... etc), and in the end, I graduated from their homes and was gifted the diploma of "I know nothing of your world". Tho they didn't directly say these straight-arrow words I knew they were the only ones to complete my hunger for acknowledgments and I know now they fed this hunger long before I was capable of recognizing other people's uses of metaphors. 

When I talk about my mother, I always remind the audience of her background. I describe her the way all women who dabble in romanticized ideology would like to be described. She the soft mix between a southern virtue and a European tea party.  But I tend to forget she use to need a suitcase.

My mother wouldn't braid my hair cause she didn't want to learn. if you wanted to feel beautiful you had to chase that train yourself. my mother could teach you how to pin curl you hair with pop cans and sew designer logos on to your pants, but there isn't no way shed teach you anything commercial- she's still learning to smile through ads.