Dear Mother,
Where should I start?
Should it be those sleepless nights
Where you sit on our porch and cried?
Or should it be the rage I shouted,
that once grew us apart?

I now have the moon on my body,
and every time it casts back from the mirror
It reminds me of the early nights
You read me stories to bed,
Or the nights you cried of Father
Or the nights you were being so humanely,
beautifully,
difficult

I have yet to hand you anything in return
And none of the things I have passed on to you
Will even up half of what you have sacrificed
And though you deserve those beyond what I can give,
Please know that every piece of my writings,
Have a projection of you in it



Thank you for the love and pain.