written in rome, after a phone call with you

i lay perpendicular on my twin sized bed. my legs vertical against the wall, hinged at my hips, noticing the linen like texture of the hurried brush strokes from paint that acts as makeup over the surface of whatever the wall was once covered with. there are mice in my mind. they run to the beat of the sounds coming from the headphones tethering me in place. it’s just a cord plugged into my phone, laying across my chest. i don’t believe i exist. yet, i am just trying to convince myself of something. i can hardly convince myself of anything anymore. i don’t believe in my potential, it’s unexhausted and uninflated. i don’t believe in god or purpose or fate. i don’t believe in determinism. i don’t believe that every minute is the same length. three years felt like one, inflated and expanded and i can’t believe what i’ve become. you let me become this, will i become my mother too? will i forgive my father for the debts he’s owed by his? or will i inherit these crippled lines of credit as if genes beg owe and borrow relations? i do not relate to you. but maybe i will when i become you. if all this hatred is just projection maybe i am already you. i don’t believe in fate 

but i don’t believe i control my mind and i can’t make decisions or have opinions and so i’m defaulted to defect to fate. and i look like you, and i understand you. your son is your foil, but you were my soil and i never land where i throw myself. and so i grow myself in you. daughter’s never want to become their father’s wives and so they become their mother’s mirror. and you hate me for it. 

guilty daughter of a guiltless father
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