Are you done?

A poem

My Photo

Are you done?

She asks me as she casts
thousands of rocks
smoothed by my
calloused hands
looking to caress
shattered glass against
stones hoping
to skip them across
crystalline waters
and they kept
sinking with my
plummeting stomach
that I was never heard
by my mother.

Are you done?

My stomach sits
in my throat and tastes like
bile witheld for awhile
it burns my tongue
I keep tasting myself
apologizing for breathing
am I taking up too much space?

Are you done?

The words molested,
sit between us like a dirtied elephant
in the room as its trunk
twists between mother
and daughter
bile renters my duct
I taste him
and my throat
collapses at the thought
of his cologne
forced onto
trembling tongue.