shadows and silhouettes

daughter

I am my mother;
so when things get rough and the ground underneath begins to tremor and throw me off balance, I stay fixed. I stay fixed even when it pushes me off the cliff and water surrounds me and darkness lulls me. I stay, I learn how to hold my breath.

I am my father;
so when the water drags me, I get comfortable in the drowning. I let the water hold me imprisoned for days, let it keep me immobile in my own misery. I hold my breath long enough for my lungs to near collapse.

I am my mother;
so I learn how to swim in my solitude and when it seems like the water has filled me up to the brim finally, I make it to the surface.

I am glad I am my mother,
but I am also my father:
I sleep on a moist pillow,
I don't wake up from it for days,
I carry his regret and sorrow.

some days I let my mother win,
I let her spirit and laughter
carry me through the day,
but they seldom surface without anger
and there's so much anger
that I find myself drowning again,
and in my fall down,
hidden underneath the wreckage,
I find a small piece
of me.
I pick her up,
cradle her
and I let her let me choose her;

she brings me to the surface.