My mother asks me how I'm doing and I tell her "fine."
I do not tell about the new anti-psychotic I was prescribed this week,
or about the anxiety attacks that land me in the hospital.
This is how I lie to my mother to save her.

My mother is not like other moths,
she is all "party at Summer's house" and no "party at Chuck E Cheese"
She is all neglect and no nurture.

When my dad left, I was the only one still here to prop her up.
I held her while she cried,
I rubbed her back while she threw up,
I cleaned the house,
did the laundry.
I raised myself when she couldn't even get out of bed.

The only time she was there was when I told I was leaving,
then she would blow dry my hair and let me sleep in her bed.
I kept pushing her,
and pushing her,
and pushing her,
just wanting her to react in someway,
even if it wasn't good.

The last time I told her I was leaving,
she packed my bags for me and I haven't known what home is since.

I've gotten my heart broken before,
I've been through plenty of break-ups;
but none of that could have ever prepared me for breaking up with my mother.
Leaving what I called home with a box of my things,
I'd never felt more grown up in my whole life.
I've been carrying my mother since I was nine,
but when I finally dropped her,
I shattered.

This is how I break my own heart
to save myself.