my mother doesn’t hug me—
she binds me in thorny tendrils—
suffocates me—
and the more I move, the worse it gets.

The thrill of a favorite song starting
at a family wedding reception
is unacceptable.
Getting on stage to dance
sends her into blind panic.
three feet of elevation was too close to the sun for my mom’s
daughter.
The vines surge from her hands, slipping through the
air like dragons, and cocoon around me.
I must not become anything other that
what she predetermined.

Everything I am is uncomfortable to her,
dangerous, reflects poorly on her, and I
don’t like being around her. Still she invites me
home to eat her food. Asks to travel with me to the
next family event. She doesn’t realize that her best
quality is her cooking, and her worst quality
is she taught me to hate myself.