Mother Chimaera

you have a shark’s eyes,

all glinting and hard,

sharp as a blade.

they squint as they pass

over me:

you look at me like i’m a meal.

i know you are mostly anglerfish,

dangling affection like a lure.

in kindergarten,

while the other children tip-toed

carefully—protectively—

i remember counting the cracks

i stomped and stepped on,

gleefully counting all your vertebrae

i was breaking along the way,

hoping to find you twisted and limp

on the floor like a dead spider

when i got home.

i know you are mostly cockroach;

not even nuclear fallout

could kill you.

in high school,

my best friend said

she could tell her mother anything,

and i shuddered.

you fed on me like carrion,

picking the flesh from my bones,

your talons digging tight

around my soul.

i know you are mostly dragon,

hoarding me like treasure,

fierce and fire-breathing.

you bare your teeth and

people run, but i am chained

at your side,

less person and more

possession.