I am my mothers sickness

It’s a strange feeling

Sometimes I worry that my very being will be laid to rest along side my mother; if nothing else I’m a walking amalgamation of her perpetuated fears, everything she hides feel within her soul she has bound to the surface of my being and it leaves me to wonder, if the source of my being is to die will I, at least in part, be banished to the earth? Will every ounce of fat I once feared because she promised me it was not a component which enhanced my image melt from my body and fuse with her corpse? Will every stretch mark slither off my body and wrap itself around the neck of a dead woman? Will there bring anything left of what she made me, desperate for another person to give me my new personality or will I lay on the poisoned ground of her burial and allow it to feel my skin, allow it to realise it forgot a vital part of the body it is now holding as the ground opens and fuses my feels with my creator once again?