It oozed out of me one night
and laid down at my feet.
By morning, it had died.
As I woke, I could smell it
decaying into the in-betweens
of my toes. Sticky-icky
like raspberry jam, and just as red.
It shivered when I washed
it, gripping tightly to my skin,
refusing to let go. Submerged
in water, I felt it stir with something
I think it likes it, likes to pretend
it’s drowning, the little dead thing.
It bleeds each time I wash
it, staining the tub bright pink
with splashes of crimson.
Bubbles rise and collect on the skin
of the water. They pop pop
away, releasing faded whimpers
of some kind of feeling.
I think of it as a daughter,
the daughter part of me.
And I am a mother, and it is me,
and I am a child washing something
like a baby.
And I can love it, give it a life
we deserve, this sweet unliving thing.