I am not the girl my mother made. 

That creature breathes no more, is as dead as the cracked dirt on an expanse of desert in Arizona, 

which I have yet to see myself. 

That girl exists in two dimensions; she 

opens her lipglossed mouth and nothing escapes it 

save the heat of Western wind on baked-hot tarmac. 

Oh how I would mourn, 

if I missed 


This poem is about: 


Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741