Her Mouth

Small thing in the kitchen.

I felt it coming—

the irritation, the tightness.

And then I heard it.

My voice. Her words. Her tone.

The exact small hand gesture

that dismisses the world.

I saw myself in the window.

Her mouth. Her expression.

There's no warning for this.

No moment where you choose.

You just open your mouth

and she's already there,

waiting inside.

I looked away.

But I knew what I'd seen.

The particular horror

of becoming someone

without agreeing to it.

My mother lives in the small motions now.

In the exact shape of my hands

when I'm done trying.

I can't unfold this.

Can't un-see.

This is how it happens—

not as betrayal,

not as choice,

just as a door

and then you're already

on the other side.