Dear mom,

She never had to be beautiful for me to love her.

But she is and I guess that's what makes it that much harder.

I think it's the way she talks,

her mouth like a cracked pen cap

spilling wet, sticky words and 

staining the air black.  

She has this voice like water running over gravel, or something.

And her laugh has this rich, brassy flavor,

sorta like swallowing metal.

And, I wanted to trap it in a jar for the bad days.

When she cried, I could hear it all crashing in her lungs and banging up her spine.

It kills me because there's nothing to do but wait out the storm.

Some days, she was an existing silence.  

With pale eyes, cold lips, limp hands.

At night I lay in a bed of ice, with the sheets 

crashing over me like whitecaps.

I can't help but think about the curve from her stomach to her hips.

The way her fingers curl like loose ribbon.

The way I want to kiss her so badly, or maybe just 

talk to her but-

I guess it doesn't work that way huh.

It's fine.

Love,

Liv