Mother, how do you resent me when my cells
still whisper inside you,
holding onto what little light
we borrowed from the same stars?
When you felt my pulse before I could,
understood my beating before I ever knew rhythm,
sensed the tug of me as I grew roots into you,
as if knowing yourself better
made it easier to know me—
to know the storms before they spoke,
the hungers before they formed.
Yet, where did we break?
Was it quantum fracture,
a collapse of infinite possibilities
narrowing into something sharp and bitter?
How does resentment grow
where once we shared breath,
where my cells nested among your blood,
listening to the murmurs of your world,
learning a love without name,
a love that one day twisted itself
in your mouth, a vine constricting?
Maybe we are still entangled,
a particle here and there,
bound in a way that outlasts time,
yet all that lingers between us now
is the question—
how can something be so known
and still be hurt,
as if knowing it all were enough
to make the hurt mean less?
I feel it, Mother—
our electrons still in delicate dance,
but perhaps, the light
never learned how to forgive the shadow
it leaves behind.
