I think if I took a pick axe, I could chisel away at Daddy
Mum, I’d have to completely unsew. That could get tricky,
separating each real filament from every false sense of self, painstaking work 
that would double on itself like a hydra,  the harder I look, the more fraught to feel.

Dad keeps himself like a unicorn heartstring neatly inside 
of a terrific stone. From boulder to shards and pebbles and
Mother is sewn into herself, like I said. She’s an arresting illusion, 
and it hurts to look at her for too long. If we unravel her strings, she’ll be left with listless, atrophied,

Do I start chipping, and hope I get done with him in time? Calculate the physics to untangle her in one fell swoop?

neither is my job, neither will I not attempt to do.

chip, sand, crack, chip, sand, chip, crack- 
I grew up in a string and boulder home, 
I am a paper doll girl made of two-sided tape and dusty old glue.