My mother is dead inside. And I’ve been in mourning ever since.
I sat at her feet in the bathroom, while she passed a brother or sister of mine in blood through her legs into the toilet.
I’m sorry. She says it was the kindest thing she ever heard.
But ever since, I felt a cold, hard, and an unfeeling kernel in my heart. And so, as she still lives, I daily kill the memory of this puncture wound.
There is this hole. I’m sorry. She and I sit on the edge of bathtubs. Silently, I destroy all life, until all I’m capable of receiving is this dull, psychic pain. Hatred is as impossible as love.
The absence of all meaningful reference points cannot be too strongly emphasized.
This is why I am only too fascinated with mortuaries in the prime of my life. It’s an untenable situation. I’m sorry. For you. Or anyone else, in love with their mothers.
A hot castration complex is what I have to hold. Somehow, all because of my dead, depressed mother who becomes me.