Memories are marbles
banging against one another,
and bouncing off the walls of my skull.
I’m scrambled brains with a side of ketchup.
You were the same as I am.
Or I am the same as you were—
Dead. What an ugly word.
My mother is dead.
I’m scrambled brains with a side of ketchup, and
you’ll never again call me your baby girl. The sound of
your voice is just another marble…
© Kindra M. Austin