I can remember
calling my mother
Mom. Not “my mom.”
Not “my mother.”
Mom.
I hope that hurts
my bastard father.
I’m reeling, though
I don’t dare show it.
My father
is a carrion eater.
Maybe I’ve seen it before.
But I’m not sure
I truly realized
until now that
bone picking
might, in fact, be
his favorite hobby
and that his victims
are as varied as his
W o m e N
and me.