My mother doesn’t love herself. I fear.
She listens to my father’s music—
themes of regret, lovelorn, and rejection.
She feels as though my father settled.
She tells me that she has never known love,
her days filled with emptiness.
My nephew is the only time she cares for a hug,
she lives for his messiness.
I know to never carry her burden,
but from the stillness in her eyes
I can sense that she’s hurting.
She rarely smiles
and when she does
it’s soft and hesitant,
almost fragile.
Jan 19
Jan 19, 2026 at 12:43 PM UTC
My mother doesn’t love herself. I fear.
She listens to my father’s music—
themes of regret, lovelorn, and rejection.
She feels as though my father settled.
She tells me that she has never known love,
her days filled with emptiness.
My nephew is the only time she cares for a hug,
she lives for his messiness.
I know to never carry her burden,
but from the stillness in her eyes
I can sense that she’s hurting.
She rarely smiles
and when she does
it’s soft and hesitant,
almost fragile.
Written in a liminal state between exhaustion and reflection.
