Mom talks about fighting for children, love trumping all else, in that husky voice. So tender. It sounds convincing. But she’s on a screen, speaking to a fake son. I’m sixteen, armed with a panoply of booze. Emptiness. Old enough to be cynical, trying to figure out why she can’t text. Say she loves me. When you become famous, you hold onto things. Try not to lose. But success is a trade-off. Comes at a price. Maybe she’ll take another role. Real mom. I’m too tired to hope. I keep watching her. I hold onto words, pretend they’re mine.
City. River. Tree. 