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like mother, unlike daughter

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My mother tries to come up with something new for dinner

each night of the week, and sometimes I think that this

is the saddest phase of her existence-having to choose between

cheese pizza, or pizza with mushrooms and garlic.

At night I dream of men that undress women like unwrapping

a gift, and use their hands as colored tissue paper,

so gentle and soft you could swoon at their touch.

But my mother is the one who kept two extra boyfriends

when she was a teenager, the second a spare to the first,

the third a backup for the second. I am not accepting of loneliness

unless it comes to me first; I am the kind of girl

who treats men like pieces on an art museum wall,

the ones that the curators keep in the storage room

because they’re too rare and even the slighest oil

from a thumbprint could damage them beyond repair.

Mother, forgive me for treating my body like a tourniquet

when heartbreak was not enough

to staunch the blood flow. I love Starbucks

just as much as the next person, but you were addicted

to lovers like a tired kid loves caffeine.

Mother, here. I give you the total of my life:

one broken condom. Two rotten apples that I threw

at the bedroom window of my first ex-boyfriend

because we were out of eggs. The three bobby pins

that the second one returned to me

from underneath his covers. The drunk texts I sent

because I was too upset to handle being sober.

Mother, I will not be like you.

When I find the right one,

I will keep him.


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