The Aesthetics of My Mother
There is cigarette smoke burning the flesh of your throat; the tender skin where so many syllables have scraped across to form insults and belittlement. It escapes through your teeth. When the nicotine fades, coffee will infuse its pungent smell on your breath and linger there a while. Nine years later, I still associate liars and warped truth with caffeine and nicotine.
I used to wish you’d find it in yourself to brush your teeth. I used to think that the urge to take care of yourself was buried down below a concept called depression that was so foreign to my young ears. I also lacked the experience to know that it couldn’t be dug out by my crayon artwork or other tiny glue and construction paper trinkets crafted by my small hands.
Now, I stand at a shaky sixteen years of age, but despite the odds you threw, I am standing. I straddle between indifference and malice whereas your health is concerned; six months since the ink (blood?) dried on the divorce decree and I still can’t find it in myself to bear the title of the bigger person. I have learned the tactics of gas-lighting far too late.
In conclusion, I hope your teeth fall out, mother.