Growing into my mother's shoes

[amiwrite]

this is about a girl who is afraid of ending up like her mother

plates crack upon impact with the tiles
that coat my kitchen floor,
my mother stands between marble counters,
peering at me through eyes of haze,
recognition does not register.
as I stand, stoic and solid, I wonder
which one of us has truly gone fishing,
which of us has seemed to
misplace any sense of mind.

I lay beneath cotton and threads,
the television blares in the hallway,
colors flicker on and off my doorway.
I lay still, clenching and unfurling fists,
afraid that the madness that lingers
in the air, all around me,
might seep into my skin as a I sleep,
and that I might awake with eyes like
kaleidoscopes, living in various shades
of blunt and brittle reality