down in me

You encroach on my space without so much as a nod to my consent, you intuit I’ve consent for none. Stepping into my place with a dismissive shrug, passing judgement, invading.

Speaking of which… my mother, god rest her soul, though she’s not dead - my mother used to drink coffee only on Saturday mornings, and then it was white with milk and weak and sweeter than honey. Baby’s bottle, she called it. The rest of the week, breakfast consisted of the juice of a half dozen oranges, or, if pressed for time, the pulp of one. It helps keep me regular, she would say in her roundabout way.

You inspect my soiled laundry, running your fingertips over my dusty surfaces, inhaling my nicotine air. Remarking at my overcrowding or my lack.

She’s a beautiful woman, my mother. Always has been. She was gorgeous, desperate fodder for older men in her youth, I’m living proof. And she’s gorgeous, desperate fodder for younger men in her maturity. There was a space of some years in which she was lost, though. He spoke loudly, he was a loud man. He drowned out her voice with a neverending stream of ignorant jabber. She was sick for a while, and careless. I now realise that while I was busy rebelling, my life unfolded similarly. I avoided loud men, thankfully, but drowned in quiet men just the same.

Speaking of which… you tell me not to worry, that you’re not disgusted or worse or better. You understand much of nothing yet you feel entitled to your lukewarm inspection of my desperate living. You dispense with my humanity under the pretense of assistance, infringing on my every quivering cell.

I don’t eat oranges in the morning. I drink strong, bitter coffee. If I were as beautiful as she, I’d be insufferable. The similarities are clear, ancient talk of apples true, but I saw what she couldn’t, a marked and crucial difference, and speaking of which… of that I never speak.