My mother doesn’t even know….

That we are almost the same person.  Our palm lines run thinner than our blood lines and we are interconnected, as if I have never left her womb.  She cradles me against her chest, singing words of lullabies that leave syllables tinging at the tips of her tongue.  The sounds backlash like hypocritical odes against her inverted trachea, trying to keep any hesitation in her voice from leaving her soul.  Her soul, so black and dark not because she doesn’t have one, but because her addiction has consumed her.  We use our bodies as language.  Never saying anything with our mouth, but our hips, our hands, our lips, our eyes, filled with anger, filled with lust, with joy, with pain, with suffering.  Everything our fingers touch, turns to ash.  Burned to the ground; unbuildable, irreparable, indistinguishable. She is a mess.  I am a mess.  With no chaotic differentiation, we are one. We are whole.  I still feel this hold, like the veins of our umbilical cord, wrapping itself around me, keeping me connected, keeping me grounded, keeping me trapped.  Keeping me nourished, feeding me poison. I consumed what you consume, what she consumes.  I breathe the air she breathes, even if its not oxygen.  I exhale and it all tastes the same.  The air smells the same.

 I was told, the only difference between poison and prescription is dosage.