Happy late Mother’s Day
To the women with superpowers,
with eyes behind their heads,
who hear whispered calls at midnight
from underneath my bed.
You hear me laugh too loudly
when I’m talking with my friends,
but never hear the quiet shaking
when another bad night ends.
You see my tank top straps show,
tell me to cover my skin,
but somehow miss the silver lines
I carved into it.
You promised not to be your mother,
not to hand me her disease,
the one that taught you every meal
should come with shame and apologies.
But every plate became a lesson:
too much sugar, too many carbs,
watch your weight, more protein,
smaller waist, softer arms.
You never asked if I liked it.
Only if it would make me fat.
And I learned early love could sound
a lot like warnings dressed as facts.
Happy late Mother’s Day, Mom.
I know I’m hard to understand.
I know I’m not the daughter
you pictured when you made your plans.
And maybe that’s the part that hurts:
you chose to have me anyway.
You handed me a world
you think I was built to survive and stay.
Sometimes I want to ask you
why you thought I’d make it here
with your body, your sadness,
your anger, your fear.
Why you taught me how to shrink myself
before I even grew.
Why strangers always got your softness
before your children ever knew it too.
You gave the world your patience.
You gave your work your light.
You gave everyone the version of you
I kept begging for at night.
And maybe that’s unfair of me.
Maybe the world asked less.
Maybe strangers never handed you
the parts of them they couldn’t fix.
Because I know you’re a person too,
not just somebody’s mom
just a daughter who got older
while carrying what went wrong.
And I know you loved me
the best way you knew how to do.
So this is part confession,
part accusation aimed at you.
I’m sorry for resenting wounds
you never meant to leave.
But I still mourn the girl I might’ve been
if love had felt less earned to receive.
Still,
happy late Mother’s Day.
I hope being my mother
brought you more joy
than being a daughter
ever brought me.
May 14
May 14, 2026 at 12:34 AM UTC
Happy late Mother’s Day
To the women with superpowers,
with eyes behind their heads,
who hear whispered calls at midnight
from underneath my bed.
You hear me laugh too loudly
when I’m talking with my friends,
but never hear the quiet shaking
when another bad night ends.
You see my tank top straps show,
tell me to cover my skin,
but somehow miss the silver lines
I carved into it.
You promised not to be your mother,
not to hand me her disease,
the one that taught you every meal
should come with shame and apologies.
But every plate became a lesson:
too much sugar, too many carbs,
watch your weight, more protein,
smaller waist, softer arms.
You never asked if I liked it.
Only if it would make me fat.
And I learned early love could sound
a lot like warnings dressed as facts.
Happy late Mother’s Day, Mom.
I know I’m hard to understand.
I know I’m not the daughter
you pictured when you made your plans.
And maybe that’s the part that hurts:
you chose to have me anyway.
You handed me a world
you think I was built to survive and stay.
Sometimes I want to ask you
why you thought I’d make it here
with your body, your sadness,
your anger, your fear.
Why you taught me how to shrink myself
before I even grew.
Why strangers always got your softness
before your children ever knew it too.
You gave the world your patience.
You gave your work your light.
You gave everyone the version of you
I kept begging for at night.
And maybe that’s unfair of me.
Maybe the world asked less.
Maybe strangers never handed you
the parts of them they couldn’t fix.
Because I know you’re a person too,
not just somebody’s mom
just a daughter who got older
while carrying what went wrong.
And I know you loved me
the best way you knew how to do.
So this is part confession,
part accusation aimed at you.
I’m sorry for resenting wounds
you never meant to leave.
But I still mourn the girl I might’ve been
if love had felt less earned to receive.
Still,
happy late Mother’s Day.
I hope being my mother
brought you more joy
than being a daughter
ever brought me.
Idk, this feels a little bit messy to me, I really want any feedback you have to give on this
