Brianna

Her mother made her at fifteen,
too young to make new things,
she herself unfinished. Now
the thing she made's eleven,
crouched down, mad-haired,
wheezing like a punctured
toy accordion. (Her inhaler's
out.) Mother's come undone,
or so she hears in other words
from the closet where she's hiding,
crowded in by clothes her grandma
wears to go work at the bar.
Her mother doesn't know she's here
Brianna hears the words herself
I tried to kill myself
and this spectre of her mother
(who she thinks she's another
copy of) has her tied up,
cried up, locked up lighting
matches in the bathroom
just to watch them burn. Go out.
She's wound up an' hissin'
'cause the bus kids
say she psycho,
say her ma
got mennal issues.
Say she jus' the same.