Mom
I miss you.
It's the first of Febuary
- the month you died.
I feel horrible but I don't show it.
I hide under the light I reflect.
Claiming I'm alright when my eyes
Start to bleed salt.
I whisper to myself,
"Be strong for her."
But how could the Earth ever pull Itself together if it loses its moon?
I'm already planning my life away,
in fear that I won't get the
chance to succeed because of time.
Because of the time you never had.
My only enemy is time,
I'll never get enough time
to say and do the things I mean.
Yet somehow I have
enough time to cry,
enough time to miss you.
I'm always missing you
and I'm sick of it.
People say with time
things get better,
and they do
except for you,
you just change
and learn to live without.
So, I replace my
scars with words,
blades with pencils
And skin with paper
hoping that you'll read them,
but you have no eyes to read.
I wonder if heaven has books too.
YOU ARE READING
Ode to the broken crystal.
Poetry"if heaven has books, may this one go to you." - Your Daughter.
