Toxic Amalgamations Can Be Beautiful Too

They are too foggy, Dreams, visions, etc.; I don’t know, I don’t remember, but o’ wait! Yes, a distinct memory. I started remembering words hoarse, dry words mixed with the lemonade air. a conversation? The smell of heated leather chains me to the patio where the goddess sits. I have lost faith in her, no longer a goddess but my birthmother. The second person in this conversation. 'Bitter sweet or sweetly bitter', asking the nicotine-filled air. A head emerges through the smoke, mingling with the lesser being. She exhales pure ash and stares, ocean to mildew eyes. ‘Bitter sweet.’ Why, I ached to ask her but it refused to come out, my lips a graveyard. Fruit trees, beautiful ones. Aristaeus but never Eileithyia, my mother. Leaves and Vines blend with the anger that my mother had, not anymore malt as its replacement. I wanted to try her cigarette, the one kissed tenderly by her two lips now. My fingers turn black. Black as black can be, emission at the seams of my nails up to the pretty blonde strands of my mother’s hair. I wonder, lips formed to ask, maybe. ‘Mascara,’ she answers, knowing the question before it escaped my tongue and ventured into her ears. Because we are entwined, now, black and volcanic two minds, one body no two bodies, one mind. I wince, the band-aids refuse to help; including the Arnold ones I used to put on myself. Bittersweet. My cuts grow bigger until it resembled the cracks of the earth; and ate my blue bike and the ghost house I used to live in, her being the one to haunt them. ‘You blame,’ who says. ‘You lie,’ says the other. Not a conversation anymore, but furious eruptions, ruinous pertinence. It was calamitous and vulgar, glorious culmination, as it destroyed everything; leaving nothing but cinder, carried by the wind up into the lemonade sky.