Epilogue

I scalded my mother today
and now I know why they call us
pretentious.

A fallen mosaic from the wall
is an escape, not a fault.
They call us selfish not because we want our paradise
but because we are knee high in self-made dystopia.

I won't have you write my poem as an
answer to a question no one asked,
just as I won't Turn up the fire and
Let it boil.

She said you should have told me it was hot.
In my defence
she should have told me
we are alike;
always reaching out for the wrong things,
in the wrong places at the wrong time.
In haste and always the prologue of guilt.

I offered peace in the form of canned soup
but she said oh
Don't you worry about me.