You, the forgotten son of a handsome woman, you let yourself forget as well. I suppose we all suffocate the light in our souls every so often: ego the light eater, ego the burden bringer. Your sadness defeats you, centers you in the universe and presses the weight of a trillion trillion galaxies into you. You’re a dried flower in an abandoned book, twice forgotten. This is a trend.

Your mother is quiet, her work is quiet, her aging joints pain her quietly, her agonies make not one sound. Here you are still an open mouth. You forgot again, strident voice laying atop her heavy jaw, her ancient crown. She carries your weight too, now. Again. You forget so often.

The mother of your blood is watching you across the eons of an empty room. She is quiet too. There’s gravity in those spectral eyes, willing the woman to grow out of the little boy. She remembers the wilderness of your growing girl’s heart and wonders where she lost track of you while her ancestral fingers were still braiding the bloodline.

The example here is in the blur, your borders are keeping you outside of yourself, this foreign face a distraction from the chaos you’re letting control you. You forgot how to be whole. You let him in and gave it away and now he won’t go.

The insult here is in your permissiveness, your fight for peace at unbearable personal cost. Six goddesses deep and you’re cheering over what can only be a pyrrhic victory. You forgot how to war. They are quiet inside you, watching the way you do. Watching you. Did you forget that too?