The M*ther

Mother

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Grace.

She gave us a name. 

She gave us a name and it fit. She saw it, when no one else did. She saw beyond skin. She held my hand. In android hands. More human than the world around us. We were alone. It was alive. It was okay. Safe away from everyone but her.

I censor your name.

You are not Grace.

You are what corrupts humanity. You are not the touch of ice cold hands on warm ones, you are fire, begging and grabbing at life for kindling, and calling it warmth. Mother, I am already on fire. You beg for burning while I call for the rain to cool my skin. I’m not prepared to wither. I’m not prepared to burn out, to char. You’ve become addicted to loss, as embers light the bridges behind you.

When I ask for rain, to cool me down, I hear you. I hear the sound of droplets hitting sparking wood, and petrified screams as charcoal is forced cold. 

I beg for the weather but I do not control it, Mother.

I beg for my safety, but I do not control it.

Stare at me like I have killed you, Mother.

Burn me like one of your bridges. 

Build your fire onto the wood of my broken bones.

Oh, to be cold.

Oh,

to be cold.

And nothing

like you.