We are a poem,
My mom and I.
But I’ll never let her read it.
We are the kind of poem who laughs over pizza,
And my little brother crawling on the floor.
We share stories of her history,
Each one a fossil,
I try to recreate its towering beast.
But even so,
I can never get a word in.
A mask was created,
As to never let her in,
Block her from meeting the real me.
I crave her acceptance,
But hide through lies.
That’s the kind of poem we are.
I wish we had more in common,
Things we like to do together,
But excuses slither from her tongue,
As if these snakes are second nature to her.
Most nights I dream of what life would’ve been like,
Had I stayed with her,
And the nightmares begin,
Soon I catch myself crying in my sleep.
Because of her,
I am scared of myself,
And any potential for evil I may contain.
This is my least favorite poem,
The kind I wish I could chop off,
But somehow it’s seeded itself into a heart,
And grew there,
A wilted tainted tree which should have never sprouted.
We are a poem,
My mom and I,
But I’ll never let her know.