I looked at her and I couldn’t grasp the disaster that had become us. I couldn’t understand and it was ironic because she was the one who had no conscience for her actions. I watched as her enraged eye lids fluttered and those devilish wrinkles around her eyes became valleys within the earth of her face. I wanted her planet to be filled with ever flowing rivers of water, but I knew it; and she knew it too; she hadn’t cried since she was 7, and a person like me wasn’t a god who could end a lifetime of drought. It suited her though, with her haughty temper and dry humor. I could tell from the way her skin moved across her face like an earthquake, an unsettling chain reaction that was both devastating and beautiful, that she was about to speak.  

“This world is not your permanent home, don’t get comfortable.”

Things she says I never can understand. She speaks as if she is Buddha’s mother, ’cause she enjoys my ill frustration with riddles. But one word did catch my attention. She had once called me home, her refuge, her safe place away from all the chaos. There were many things she once did in my name, but not anymore. The only time I hear my name now is after fuck you. 
  

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