My mother always envisioned me as the cheerleader
The pretty pink skirts and teased hair with a bow
She made me do little husky cheer every year until fourth grade
When I finally told her I couldn’t stand it
Instead, I grew into a poet
Writing about her but putting it in a way she wouldn’t know it
I wonder if she is mad at me for not exceeding her expectations
I wonder if she is mad at me for telling my story