‘remember’ she said
like it were simple,
painless, clean.
‘why don’t you like to remember?’
and it oozes in, like the stench of rotten flesh
uninvited
too much
too close
too close
too close
and I remember;
I am not allowed to stop this
not now
not then
this flesh of mine belongs to someone else,
again
and I know, this is not the same.
but I am stained with this debasement
and you must suckle from my shame
can you taste it?
That I don’t want this.
Can your newborn eyes see how ugly that is?
and I remember;
how I want to sing hymns to you.
to fill your world with pink and purple sound.
to wrap you whole in clouds and sunshine
I want you to be safe here
and I remember;
how you are bare, defenceless
tender like the flesh of ripened fruit
and mine are not a mother’s hands
because mothering is lush,
endless and unstinting
sincere and welcoming
and I am dry, barren, wrong
miserly and empty
this is not mothering
this fear
this resentment
your need is a question I do not have the answer to,
huge and terrifying,
it will swallow us both whole.
and I remember;
how I want to run,
I want to put you and your hunger
and your greedy ******* want
over there.
To keep space between us.
Because you want more than I have.
Need more than I am.
and the only thing that hurts me more than remembering,
is the idea that you might remember too.
This will probably be uncomfortable to read, it was certainly painful to write. But surviving ****** abuse can make mothering a new born, no matter how cherished and wanted, difficult and painful for both mother and child.