mother

transistor radio splatters against the kitchen walls

it’s a bad day, isn’t it?

it’s my fault, she screams, i want everything that’s hers

she’s right, you know, i was a terrible child

gave her presents then took them back

i always liked shiny things

she liked breaking things

now she won’t come to the phone

she must be having a bad day again

i’ll ring again later.

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