Self-portrait as Daughter

I curl myself into your left side like a wound. I am a bruise who weeps noisily for a while then settles into a lifelong throb, trading fours with your heart’s dull thuds. You have spent your life wary of my friable edges, weary of searching the Internet for a cure. As you blur at the last edges of your life, the heart’s thud will slow then cease. I will be sorry and even then the ach and bawl of me will insist. And insist.