Lungs filled up
with
questions questions questions.
Like in the pool as a child,
How long can you hold your breath?

Held under,
Burning pushing screaming
You've got to hold your breath.

The fraction left not choked out
by the uncertainties of the future
is weak, fatigued, and plagued by
doubt.

Minuscule trivialities become juggernauts
crushing the remains of structure.

When will I reach the surface?
What do I have left?
When can I breathe again?

I want to emboss myself upon you.
I want to press the pencil, nay, ink pen
of myself so strongly against you that
when you flip the page and trace your fingers across your soul
you feel Me.
I want the same for myself,
Whoever you may be.

I wish I could remove all the
crooked, scratched, and charred puzzle pieces of our past
and replace them with
clean, pure ones that reflect nothing but kindness.

I wish I could take back all the hostile words we said
melt them down into a *** of black ink
and rewrite our conversations
to speak of the basic truth that we love each other.

I wish I could turn every shove and kick and slam of door
and re-route the energy into a good action
a hug or me making brownies for you
because they are your favorite.

Every day I will do this in my mind because
I do not want to live a life without you and
I want to believe there is hope in our relationship and
because you are my mother.