I Didn’t Ask You To

my mother presses me, pushes me,

because she was taught to press

a wound which bleeds, staunch the flow,

she presses into my stomach, applies pressure,

her hands are in my heart, applying pressure, invisible wound,

she tries to stop the flow of pain which

comes from every organ in my body.

she presses us, puts pressure on the fissure,




staunching the flow of blood from a wound

she doesn’t know is there.

her hands put pressure on the stitches i already sewed up,

the wound is aching,

blood already clotted,

and her hands open up the trauma again.

she says it’s not my blood on her hands.