mother said i am a hoarder.

hoarder of purple stones, animal bones,

venom, wildflowers, seafoam in vials, honeycomb and rows of shells.

with small hands i concoct perfumes:

pepper, rosemary, myrrh, smoked wood.

the grinding of ingredients --

the crisp crackle, the crunch --

all these textures on my fingertips,

engulfing me.

i want to be touched and i want to disappear:

disappear somewhere to be touched

or to be touched so well i disappear.

now

i am the aging queen, mother long dead,

(her hair fell out and her face dropped

so she put in a knife in her neck)

begging the gold man in the mirror

to let me hoard a little longer,

my bare feet wet with tears and crows' blood.

i dug my own grave

but i'm trying to make a home out of it.

i am so aware of my slipping youth,

every second i waste.

i bathe in cocktails of acids:

retinol, niacinimide, hyaluronic, salicylic,

hoping to drown the ticking hands of time.

i hoard all these objects from my childhood.

i hoard because i am hungry.

i fear i will forget the feeling, the taste.

for many moons my lips have not kissed

the cold chrysalis of glass.

i used to be narcissus, dancing with the mirror man, all this glass around me

in mirrors and vials and coffins

were paintings of my glory.

now

all i see is mother.

we are wretched mirrors of one another,

her and i. i am all she could have been;

she is all i might be.

now

i am hunched, mumbling,

cursing this knife

the way the angels blessed those three drops of blood that fell

from the spindle of the spinning wheel,

bestowing it upon you, huntsman.

deliver me from this evil,

deliver me from time.

deliver me

that beating heart,

my divine right.

can't you see? i will die without it.

i will stick this pretty knife in my neck

and come back to haunt you

the way my mother haunts me.

mother said i am a hoarder.

the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.