When I was little
I would stare up at
My mother and think to myself
That's what I want to be when I grow up

I wanted nothing more than
To become my mother
Who tucked me in
Kissed my scrapes

Who nurtured me
Brought me water when I was
Sick and sang me to sleep
And who told me how strong I was

Little did I know
That moms are dished out
Their own servings of problems
But my mom was different

She was served piles of
Left overs and week old bread
Water unfit for a dog
And dessert was scarce

Later I learned I was the dessert
So was my father
Though he was more sour than others
She didn't care, she loved it all

But as I've grown older
The piles of unfit food
Are tumbling down
Right on top of me

My mother's food labeled
Bipolar, depression
Anxiety, self harm
Body image issues and so much more

More than one person should
Be dished up, more than
One person can stomach
Too much for the plate to handle

The plate is cracked, chipped
Used, with a residue still blanketed over
And we've learned our eyes are bigger than
Our stomachs and we attempt the plate alone

But you can't handle a full course meal
If you're stomach is so small

I've learned that even though
Doctors label my mother
Crazy and unstable
I still crave to be her

Because she's survived through
What seems like everything
And she is not only alive
But my mother is living

Maybe not the way she imagined
But she still tries to make
The best of each day
She does so much with so little

Yes, I still want to be my mother
I want to be strong and brave
Kind and nurturing
I want to be everything she thinks she isn't

Because she is my everything