To those with shrapnel
for mothers–caregivers who
leave their adoring

children hanging like

a fragmented sentence. To
those who cling fast to

human companions

and burrow themselves into
the chests of lovers,

suckling maternal

love from a wet nurse’s breast
fruitlessly; who wrap

themselves in body

heat and hearken heartbeats as
though they’re eavesdropping

behind tightly-closed

doors–attempts at inventing
a memory of

when their mothers held

them close. To those who always
unravel when they’re

alone, you must love

yourself more so that you don’t
grasp at mirages

to satisfy your

starved heart; you must become the
love of your own life.