A blooming handful of violet flowers,
The beautiful journey of being loved and lost.
A body, fragile and breakable, yet as light and magnificent as a blossomed plant.
Weeping and eroding as time progresses to the end, 

It is a nondescript summer day. Hot, but in the way all summer days are, entirely unremarkable on its own. My mother, ever the artist, takes one look at the sprawling canvas of blues and grays and browns before her, so at odds with the outside world, and decides it needs remedying.

I know not how to be an individual,
although biologically, yes, I am my own person.
But still, biologically, I am to form new flesh and blood with no prior instructions.
How to craft a cerulean personality that was to sprout from my own mental illness

I.

This is what it feels like to die.

Mother and Daughter: A Collection of Phrases

I hate you.

I’m so sorry, Mommy.

…

I love you.

Stop jumping all over me, baby! You’re like sticky rice.

A Prodigal daughter never returns home
She may enter its walls after her respite,
but is always a guest
to the ghost of her mother’s daughter