My Mother Says

My mother says I don't know how to talk.

She says my self-respect is imaginary, a thing without a voice.

I keep things hidden. My voice becomes muffled. I've swallowed my words.

My mother says I speak brilliantly well.

I have the best consoling words, give the best advice, as though it were an art I mastered in school.

My mother says I contradict myself.

I become gold on dirt. I wear my clothes, undried. I flower my words with venom.

My mother says I might just be a lover who doesn't love herself.

That might be the cruelest thing I've ever heard.

My mother says I'm an artist who might just be a canvas,

but for others, I sketch out the perfect art.