I don't remember ever meeting my mom
I only remember hearing the vacuum go off at 7:32am on a Sunday
the smell of curry wafting through the house on a Thursday night
the sound of water spattering against dirty dishes
minutes after the CLINK of keys on the counter
knowing it was her
I don't remember ever meeting my mom
I only remember hearing the door open late at night
the sound of the television as it spouted football games and unfunny sitcoms
a voice asking, "What's for dinner?" after a long day's work
the sound of faint snoring coming from the master bedroom late on a Sunday morning
knowing it wasn't her
I don't remember ever meeting my mom
I only remember seeing her change her shirt for the first time
her stomach littered with rust-colored scars from the emergency C-section
as she stared in the mirror, unwittingly repeating exactly what she had said yesterday
"I need to lose weight"
knowing it was her but shouldn't have been
I don't remember ever meeting my mom
I only remember asking her at a young age
"Why do I have Daddy's last name and not yours if you were the one who had me?"
As she explained how it was just the way things were
while I silently wished to change it
knowing it should've been hers
I don't remember ever meeting my mom
but I remember knowing a man's name before ever knowing my own
YOU ARE READING
paradoxical
Poetryyears worth of teenage and young adult angst transferred from a ratty old notebook to this app --for anyone who also feels like everything they do contradicts the personality that they desire to be perceived as
