My Mother
My mother screams in my face as I sit silently. The coffee grounds are still in the sink from where she’d thrown them at me. The coffee grounds are still under my nails where I’d tried to scrub chunks off the wall. My throat closes up as I try to sit impassively. I press my hands together in some sort of prayer. I bite my cheek and press my lips together to try and stop the tears. She mistakes my grimace for something directed toward her. She screams and cries and hits herself while I sit frozen. My nose starts to drip, and I can taste it in my throat. It coats my upper lip, thick, mucus. I can’t wipe my face. I can’t move my hands. I can’t do anything. I can’t do anything. I want to look up to stop the tears from falling. I know that she’ll see an eye-roll. She asks me if I want her to die. She tells me that she’ll die because of me. She tells me that she wants to die. She tells me that if she dies, it will be my fault.
