Mother,

At night my skin aches with loneliness.

She itches independently, like threatening mutiny, as if she thinks she can just

pop off of my bones

And go find someone to hug.

She would go to yours, she says:

If you crawled onto someone's doorstep

At 3:40 in the morning,

Nothing but a loose pile of epidermis and connective tissue,

Whose doorstep would you rather it be?

Who else would understand?

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