On mother
Hello
There are still things I avoid writing about
My neighbour going around all white, with hair like dried hay, like a ghost, for example.
Like an angry ghost
And that through my actions, she ended up in this state
She used to have purple cheeks and a purple nose resembling mine
But now she is a ghost with an axe and a chainsaw, making firewood, chopping up a tall straight pine tree which toppled during the storm around New Year’s Eve.
It’s like it’s my fault because she is unable to adapt, a mind that maybe was frigid to begin with but now it’s too old
she can’t see my point of view, though I can see her
It used to be mine too
Because my mind isn’t like that, it’s soft and flexible like a rubber band; I can adjust
But it’s snapped
I can’t turn back now
And I’m better off now
But I feel terrible nonetheless
But I can’t turn back
I chose myself