I picked wildflowers for you.
I brought you breakfast in bed
on Mother's Day.
I put a bell on your night stand when you were sick,
and brought you whatever you wanted
when you rang it.
I told you that you looked beautiful
and gave you handmade cards.
I told you I loved you.
So many different ways,
I tried to win your approval.

Now I wonder if you look at the magnet I bought you
at a Mother's Day garage sale when I was eight,
which you still keep on the fridge,
a little bear holding a heart that says,
"I love you, Mom,"
and think that it's a lie.
It isn't,
but all those years I spent
desperate for your attention and praise
showed me that you never loved me.
Not for who I really am.
To this day, it's all about you.

It's not fair that a person can grow
strong enough to walk away from abuse
but remain scarred forever,
haunted by it in everything they do,
everywhere they go.
A shadow falls on me,
and darkens all my days.  
There's a hole in my heart
that nothing can fill
where your love was supposed to go.