the uncontrollable steaming of
molten rock releases confined exasperation,
cracking charcoaled, ashened lips–
the breaking of civility.

an announcement of an ignorant truth.
no quiero vivir como tú, má.

the air suffocates thirteen year old me,
but i narrow my eyes even harder.
tensions heighten and my eyes soften
like the dimming of a glaring sunlight
on a stained glass window.

mother drops the plastic plates she
had been washing all afternoon,
turns off the faucet
and my legs wobble. she wipes her
soapy hands on her thighs,
and i inhale sharply, bracing myself
for an earned slap.

she leaves.
a raw, cutting quiet to the end
of a storm.

no quiero vivir como tú, má: i don’t want to live like you, mom.