Birth

I have my mother's rage.

The quiet rage, the unassuming one,

the rage which grips onto every molecule of your body,

until it claws and licks at your whitened bones.

The rage which sinks its sharp canines in you

which savours the taste of blood,

it craves it.

It lures your loved ones in carefully, it invites them into its stenching residence.

Sets out a nice cup of tea, or perhaps, the good tablecloth.

And when they think it's gone, the rage twists their necks,

and laps up the blood with its serpent tongue.

I have my father's indifference.

I sit and watch as it happens, smiling, as I watch and watch my house burn.

- e.u.

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