by Oyindamola Shoola
Across the door,
my mother stares at me in horror
with arms folded
and her tongue loaded.
I, almost kissing thirty, as single as a digit,
and a chief introvert,
still renting a room in my mother's house,
currently wearing one of her stolen blouse,
managing her fridge with my mouth,
and turning up her heat at midnight,
twerks to Cardi B's WAP lyrics
as I scrub the bathroom's sink
"I don't cook,
I don't clean
but let me tell you
how I got this ring..."
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