inheritance.

Last night I dreamt

the mother of a boy I once knew

stalked me through crowds,

eyes fixed, mouth set.

Then she attacked me in public.

Everyone in the crowd

just stood there, staring.

When I woke, I felt safe.

I knew she was dead—

and so was her son.

Actually, everyone who has ever hurt me,

truly hurt me,

is dead.

Except one.

That’s not some tough-girl flex.

              More like a fun fact.

Eight years ago my mom died.

Yes—everyone who has ever hurt me,

truly hurt me,

is dead.

Except one.

It wasn’t until this morning

I could be honest—with myself,

with others.

All this stuff—my mother,

in her dying days,

curated and selected

just for me—

it’s a burden, not a blessing.

No gift. No inheritance.

Just a continuation I wish to end.

It took me eight years to say no.

To remind myself:

everyone who has ever hurt me,

truly hurt me,

is dead.

Except one.

I am safe.

Safe for now.

I can outlive the worst of them.