how the room is the mirror

how the room reflects the state of your soul.
the inside.
the outside.
the inside.
and it is behind schedule, half tidy half dirty and not ready no more.

'you should take some one on one time with her'
from aunt to aunt.
every generation, every situation is different.
every family is fucked.

images of her unclean adolescent skin flicker through my mind and strangely in rhythm with the street lights on Wilshire Blvd, hurrying by.
Her unsettling gaze, the frosty atmosphere that threw me back. If I only knew. Inside. jealousy can shine so bright, so blinding.
'What are YOU doing here'
It is small and upsetting. Like the small wounds always hurt so much more than the very big ones. Because for the big ones we have anesthesia. The Gambler, The Nun, and the Radio.

They took my appendix away when I was nine. My mom cried that night and many years to come. 'I abandoned my baby and then they just cut it away!' Bastards, they.

But then, what about abortion. Cut life away. Let it be cut. Let it be. Let it go. What if it doesn't go.
What if you have to deal with a niece who resembles them all and none. Because her mother feels I owe her something. Because our mother tried to cut her away like they cut my appendix, just, she wouldn't go, like our mom's heartache for so many years to come. Life as one big anesthesia. And both never really knew how to be, free, from. How to let blood. Cleanse. Catharsis.
And now she tries to cut me with her eyes.
And words.
And all.

I feel so inside out.