The Writer's Life: Film & Book Reviews, Observations, and Stories
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Ode to Pain

If your mother were Sylvia Plath
And insisted on
Openly discussing her means and methods
The one sharp knife in the house
Rejected because someone would have to clean up the mess
Or the pistol that had been inadvertently hidden and not found
Or, best of all, the antifreeze and carbon monoxide poisoning
She used in her last failed attempt,
And you could not dissuade from her purpose
No matter what you said,
How would you react?
Except to embrace the void that is her life
And the numbing pain that owes its existence
To the man who is your father.