my womb started beating fraud-u-lence-is-wait-ing when the orchestra drove ivory piano keys into me and so vivaldi birthed my daughter wet and gifted spiritually, she was born restless, with obsession and depression, her trials were ritual sadness locked up in rib cage cabinet, she was a death threat and potential mess.
my daughter was born in november with an archers wound and consistency to surrender, she was peeled out of scabs from her torso, my daughter breathed little and extended fingertips to suffrage but my daughter had no soul, she was born in november, topaz toothaches, emotional disconnection, lies before truth was made, my daughter was born on her knees forgetting which words spelled out forgiveness and tried to please people with kindness, but my daughter was inevitably soulless. she shunned off the violin strings she used to strangle me and plucked my money ‘til harmonics ran smoothly.
my daughter took my picture one day in spring time, she told me my bones were perfect, that she’d inherited my jaw line and my daughter wrote love letters to suicide, wanted to be famous on the other side.
my daughter was born in november during down pours of her favorite weather, she was a caretaker for nothing and couldn’t memorize a poem, my daughter was a writer, she tried to tell a story, my daughter was born in november she was always paranoid, she felt too old in the winter, too young in the summer, she wanted to be trained classically but couldn’t withstand the notes and keys. my daughter only felt self loathing when her hands were too dirty for holding, my daughter was born in november and i don’t even remember her.