my mom made my bed today,
removed my wrinkled sheets slowly
but fast enough
for her not to find traces of fresh tears underneath–
then she picked up my stuffed toys;
my avid audience, her replacement,
when she grew tired of hearing
how mundane shit happened in my day
as she made my bed,
she collected my worn-out pillows,
folded my blanket in half, and
used her soothing voice,
(the voice she used to sing me lullabies)
to throw muffled curses at me,
telling me,
to grow up,
to find my life,
to live–
i wanted to respond, saying,
“how can i live knowing i died the day i was born,”
yet instead, i ate my words–
while watching
how she made the bed, i'll be ruining tonight
BINABASA MO ANG
On Bridges That We Burned
PoesíaA collection of unsaid words and feelings dedicated to the people I once loved and cherished.
