It oozed out of me one night

and laid down at my feet.

By morning, it had died.

 

As I woke, I could smell it

decaying into the in-betweens

of my toes. Sticky-icky

like raspberry jam, and just as red.

 

It shivered when I washed

it, gripping tightly to my skin,

refusing to let go. Submerged

in water, I felt it stir with something

like life.

 

I think it likes it, likes to pretend

it’s drowning, the little dead thing.

 

It bleeds each time I wash

it, staining the tub bright pink

with splashes of crimson.

 

Bubbles rise and collect on the skin

of the water. They pop pop

away, releasing faded whimpers

of some kind of feeling.

 

I think of it as a daughter,

the daughter part of me.

And I am a mother, and it is me,

and I am a child washing something

like a baby.

 

And I can love it, give it a life

we deserve, this sweet unliving thing.