I hate the moments when memories rise
soft as shadows behind my eyes
because that’s when missing you begins
a quiet ache beneath my skin.
I ask myself what I’m longing for: the love I needed, nothing more?
Or is it just the hope I grew a gentle dream that wasn’t you?
Do I miss the warmth you’d sometimes fake
like sunlight cast across a lake.
Beautiful
but only gleams
on waters hiding darker things?
Do I miss the home I tried to keep
the baby fed
the floors swept clean
a plate kept warm for you at night
while I erased myself to make things right?
At sixteen, carrying a world too wide,
mothering a house I never chose inside
a child with tired arms and aching feet
learning love should never feel like defeat.
Do I miss the way you dimmed my flame,
whispered insults, carved my shame?
Left fingerprints I couldn’t see on mirrors that refused to love me?
Do I miss the secrets I had to hide
the heavy silence you tied inside
the bruises born of others hands while yours stayed still, as if unmanned?
Or maybe it’s the girl I used to be.
the child who tried so desperately
to turn your storms into peaceful skies,
and drank your hurricanes as lies.
Some nights, I grieve the mother I made,
the one I painted in softer shades,
the one who could have held me tight , and taught me how to sleep at night.
But your love was a flicker
here,
then gone,
a fading spark before the dawn,
a song you hummed but never knew,
a lullaby that never followed through.
You say I’m crazy when I speak, but truth has never made me weak.
It only shakes the world you built from fragile pride and whispered guilt.
So why the fight to keep me near,
if love was never living here?
Why claim a child you wouldn’t raise except to dim her brightest days?
Still,
I miss you in small cruel ways, in quiet nights and empty days. In toes that mirror yours in shape,
in meals my hands can’t yet recreate.
I miss the echoes,
soft and slight.
The tiny glimmers of borrowed light.
The laughter brief
the memories few
the things I wanted most from you.
And though you never loved me right,
my heart still yearns in gentle spite.
A tender wound that never quits,
a poem written in bruised fragments.
Because missing you is missing hope ,
the girl I was who tried to cope.
Who begged for love that never came,
yet somehow loved you just the same.
Feb 6
Feb 6, 2026 at 4:57 PM UTC
I hate the moments when memories rise
soft as shadows behind my eyes
because that’s when missing you begins
a quiet ache beneath my skin.
I ask myself what I’m longing for: the love I needed, nothing more?
Or is it just the hope I grew a gentle dream that wasn’t you?
Do I miss the warmth you’d sometimes fake
like sunlight cast across a lake.
Beautiful
but only gleams
on waters hiding darker things?
Do I miss the home I tried to keep
the baby fed
the floors swept clean
a plate kept warm for you at night
while I erased myself to make things right?
At sixteen, carrying a world too wide,
mothering a house I never chose inside
a child with tired arms and aching feet
learning love should never feel like defeat.
Do I miss the way you dimmed my flame,
whispered insults, carved my shame?
Left fingerprints I couldn’t see on mirrors that refused to love me?
Do I miss the secrets I had to hide
the heavy silence you tied inside
the bruises born of others hands while yours stayed still, as if unmanned?
Or maybe it’s the girl I used to be.
the child who tried so desperately
to turn your storms into peaceful skies,
and drank your hurricanes as lies.
Some nights, I grieve the mother I made,
the one I painted in softer shades,
the one who could have held me tight , and taught me how to sleep at night.
But your love was a flicker
here,
then gone,
a fading spark before the dawn,
a song you hummed but never knew,
a lullaby that never followed through.
You say I’m crazy when I speak, but truth has never made me weak.
It only shakes the world you built from fragile pride and whispered guilt.
So why the fight to keep me near,
if love was never living here?
Why claim a child you wouldn’t raise except to dim her brightest days?
Still,
I miss you in small cruel ways, in quiet nights and empty days. In toes that mirror yours in shape,
in meals my hands can’t yet recreate.
I miss the echoes,
soft and slight.
The tiny glimmers of borrowed light.
The laughter brief
the memories few
the things I wanted most from you.
And though you never loved me right,
my heart still yearns in gentle spite.
A tender wound that never quits,
a poem written in bruised fragments.
Because missing you is missing hope ,
the girl I was who tried to cope.
Who begged for love that never came,
yet somehow loved you just the same.