I looked at her, eyes the same as mine,
yet entirely different. Mine searched for truth, not rescue.
I couldn’t nod like I knew, couldn’t get angry, because it would make no difference. So I just listened.
Too often, my mother spoke about things I didn’t want to understand, but I knew her words needed somewhere to go, so I absorbed them through my skin, until my own breath tasted brackish.
I shelled it all in until I became little cracks, unobservable to the naked eye. A weeping window that grew opaque.
-image via Prexels