i want to hate my mother
for failing to caress the back
of her twelve year old daughter;
the child grew cold and
unfamiliar with kindness
because the frost in her heart
was never warmed
by her own mother’s love.
but how can i
point my anger at her,
knowing that she didn’t feel
and see and experience
anything at all
but violence in her old house,
when everything that she wanted was to
feel the warmth
of her mother’s love
too?
she focused so hard
on giving me freedom—
the thing that she never had
as a prisoner of her parents’ wrath—
but the grip was too loose,
that she can no longer recognize
and differentiate
the hand of her child
from the other kids’.
the grip was too loose,
and her absence is way closer to me
than her body.
we’re like strangers
but with related blood in our veins.
but i can’t hate her still,
because i understand.
if i don’t,
then i would have neglected her
the way i do
to my own emotions.
YOU ARE READING
Found This Book Somewhere In The Forest
Poesía"Talk to my soul later midnight, when the moon's at its peak. That's the only way of communication that I know, because my physical lips will stutter if I told you about how I want to tear my human skin apart and go out."
