Mama ain’t mama

Still got the same golden-butter hair, same as mine, her eyes a matching blue, but her mouth ain’t right. My mama smiles like summer, but this mama ain’t cracked even one since she come outta old Flander’s windmill.

Her hands on me feel salamander cold. She steers me towards the dusty dark what smells of dead things.

“See what’s inside, sweetie?” she says.

This mama’s voice is dull as rocks, not alive with laughter like it’s supposed to be.

“I ain’t going in there,” I tell this mama, but she won’t stop pushing.

This mama’s stronger, too.

Moira writes weird stories and pretends to be a rat on the internet. @moirariom.bsky.social www.ohmoira.com