Here is your daughter. Nuzzled up to Morse code. You melted wax around my limbs. Tallied my body with shells and expired calendars. Here is your shadow mother, if you ever really were. There is more of you than knives. I was listening to your spinning wheels and soap operas. I was gathering my limbs from cereal boxes. Complimenting more of you than I could eat for dinner. I used to make my bed in cabinets mother, where you labeled knives and melted wax. Dreaming of your knives. Here is your never really.
Contraposition 