The Piano

I recently stopped speaking to my mother. She got the rest of the family in the divorce.

When I stopped, a piano began falling towards my head. The pianist asks why I’m such a bitch to the tune of “It’s a Small World”. Why-are-you-a-fuck-ing-bitch? Why-are-you-a-fuck-ing-bitch?

I go to work. I take improv classes. The moment it is quiet, I hear the piano again.

I feel sick. I remind myself I am not, and I spit up my food.

I look in the mirror and laugh. I have no teeth. I hadn’t noticed before.

I read Sharp Objects. I take a photo of it with the hold slip bearing my name, then hide it under another book with the back facing up.

I tell people what I have done with cotton in my mouth. My mother slept on the floor of my college dorm so I could have the bed. No, I might not speak to her ever again.