(!The Call is Coming from Inside the House!)

My mother is still aliveBut I think her corpse restsUnder my bed.I tuck my sheets around the frameOf her as sheGroans and rolls overAnd whispers up through myPillows. She asks why IDon’t call why I blocked her numberShe tugs on the sinkholeOf my mattress and wondersWhy I crush her so.She sprinkles her grave dirtUnder the covers just toWatch me writhe.My mother balls up all theLint and wayward socks andStuffs them into her rotted chest cavityTo feel some sort of fullness thereAnd she says this is what you’veDone to me.

She tells me to get out out outOf bed and into the world whileHolding me downShe asks why it hurts so muchFor me to surrender into her embrace.Is she really so jagged and sharp?Has her softness decayed so muchThat she must wound meEvery time she reaches out to touch my skin?My mothers’ corpse makes sureI am always uncomfortableWhen I lay down to rest;No, you will never be safe, you willNever be anywhere that I’m not.She drags me into theBusted rib cage of her bodyAnd tells me to look in the mirror:We are so alike.When you realise that we are the sameThat we are entwined and mouldedTogether—then willYou pick up the phone?