tears & toothpaste

I’m sitting on the edge
of a bathtub,
brushing my teeth,
tears rolling down my cheeks
into my mouth,
mixing with the toothpaste.

They don’t go all that well together
— reminds me of us.

When I was little,
people would often ask me:
“Do you live on air?”

“What do you eat? Rocks?”

As a kid, I hated food
(my mother’s food, at least).
My parents would sit
with me at the kitchen table
for hours, begging me
to take another bite,
another sip,
until I would start crying.

Tears would pour down my face
like the summer monsoon,
flooding my eyes,
my mouth,
making their way
into the bowl of soup
that was laid out in front of me.

The soup tasted like tears.

It was my father that used to make me cry;
now, it’s you.