thoughts while my son yells at me

His lips tell me everything I need to know.
I can’t even hear what he’s saying, staring at them.
I can see the skin re-knit in a blur, the blisters healing
a fast forward time capture of his skin, his immune system
obeying me

I imagine myself as my mother’s unwilling inheritor
kitchen witch, aura reader, potion maker, ghost talker
unsatisfied in my own skin, running away every time things get
that close to the center.

So what if it’s true.
My son’s lip is healing
and I know that means his sickness has receded
his immune system, the tiny soldiers within
taking orders from me at last.

I have learned to run without leaving,
wrapped in silent self loathing
and he can inherit love and loyalty instead,
become a kitchen witch
and heal his own children.

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