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picture this: i'm 11.

new macy's two-piece bathing suit.
i like the colors.
you hate my stomach.

summer.
"why can't i wear my new suit?"
"because nobody wants to see a beached whale."

i do not wear it to the beach.
i dive into our golden lake,
your tongue-blade
muted among the surf.

i am beautifully alone,
but i do not wish to be.
the silence is enough of a gift.

you say "beached whale"
and expect it to hurt,

and it does. but not how you wanted.

i am a beached whale. 16 years later
a creature only meant to observe and love,
i was pushed out of the water,
to drown in your desert air.

i am learning to swim again.

i will break your harpoon.
thanks mom
I grew up in the shadow of my mother’s cries,
a symphony of pain echoing through thin walls.
My father’s rage was a storm I could not calm,
locked away in my room, a prisoner of helplessness.

I trained my ears to listen for the silence,
for the absence of that horrible sound meant safety.
In the sweltering heat of summer,
I turned off the fan, closed the window,
sacrificing comfort to keep my vigil.

The stillness was my shield,
my ears scanning, always scanning,
for the sound that shattered peace.

I wondered, if my mother had been different—
empowered, independent, unyielding—
would she have escaped the blows?
Would I have been spared the scars of witnessing?

But no, her submissiveness was not the crime.
The fault lay in the hands that struck,
in the heart that chose cruelty over love.

And yet, I confess, I dream of a submissive wife.
Not to dominate, not to harm,
but to prove, to myself and to the world,
that gentleness deserves tenderness,
that softness is not a weakness to exploit.

I will love her properly, care for her deeply,
respect her fully, treasure her words like a melody,
and hold her thoughts as close as my heartbeat.
I will be kind without condition.

For if I do not, it would be as if I blamed my mother
for the sins of my father.
And that, I cannot bear.

Yes, I celebrate the empowered, the independent,
the women who rise, unbroken, against the tide.
But let us not forget:
a submissive woman is not a flawed woman.

She, too, deserves love, care, and kindness.
She, too, deserves to be safe,
to have her voice respected,
her opinions valued,
and her dignity upheld.

For the fault of abuse lies not in the victim,
but in the hands that wield it.
And in my hands, I vow to hold only gentleness,
to break the cycle,
to honor my mother’s tears
by creating a world where no one has to cry.
In Defense of Gentleness
This poem explores the trauma of witnessing abuse and the desire to break cycles of harm. The term 'submissive' is used not to endorse traditional gender roles or power imbalances, but to reflect a personal commitment to treating gentleness and softness with the love, respect, and kindness they deserve. It is a call to honor the dignity of all individuals, regardless of their nature or behavior, and to hold abusers accountable for their actions.
Danish Mattoo Mar 10
When I Miss You Most, Mother.
It was a night shrouded in darkness,
A night where not a flicker of light could be found.
A cold crept beneath my blanket’s edge,
And the fever wrapped its shivering arms around me.
I searched for warmth,
A sip of water to ease my chill,
Yet all I found was silence in the stillness.

In that aching quiet, memories stirred—
Of you, Mother, beside me through every fevered breath,
With gentle hands and home remedies,
Nursing me back to life.
You’d stay awake if I couldn’t sleep,
And wouldn’t eat if I was too weak.
Oh, how I miss you in my frailest moments,
When no one is there to bring me comfort in the dark.

I’ve found kind souls around me,
Gentle hearts that fill the space you left.
They care for me, and I am truly, grateful.
But still, no one could be you, Mother—
Though they are not lesser,
They are never quite the same.
Some nights are darker than others, not because of the absence of light, but because of the ache that sits deep within. I wrote this poem on one such winter night, shivering with fever and longing for the gentle hands of my mother.

When you’re in pain, and no one is there to comfort you, it’s impossible not to think of the days when just a touch from her could ease every discomfort. Those sleepless nights in childhood, wrapped in her care, feel like a memory that time cannot replace.

This poem is not just a reflection of longing; it’s a tribute to every mother who sacrifices her peace for her child’s well-being. It’s a reminder of the irreplaceable warmth that only a mother can bring.

I hope this piece resonates with you as much as it did with me when I penned it in the stillness of the night.
Julie Mar 9
When you feel like having no fear,
only then will you realize
what is that thing called life
and that your biggest fear
is leaving your mother on the other side

On the other side of the land,
in another country
She is alone there,
doing the laundry

You call her through the phone,
see her sitting there alone,
You want to touch her—
But you can’t.

And you realize that year ago you could,
but you did not

It is the reality of child trying to grow up
a child thinking that is mature enough,
but is not

They say, Oh, what it is like to be a mother?
But Oh, God,
what it is like to be a child?
Hug your mom while you can
Gideon Mar 8
Justice isn't enough. I want her blood, but I don't want it spilled on my child-like fingers. I want it washed off of them, with simple gentleness. The kindness she never bothered to save for her own flesh and blood. I want her blood to soak into a warm, wet washcloth, held in loving, caring hands.

I never wanted her blood! She put her blood on my hands, framing a child for a crime no one committed. She covered up her own atrocities by bleeding all over a small body with small hands that only wanted a hug. Some comfort. A mother.

So no. Justice will never be enough. Vengeance will never sate my rage. But sweet words may. And warm cuddles might. Maybe a hug from someone who isn't a bleeding blood relative will make up for what she did and didn't do.

Please, wash my hands. Wash off her sins, and let me have my childhood back. Cleanse my soul of her tainted blood, until the water runs clear.
Gideon Mar 8
A tornado ripped through my house. It devastated my family. This freak of nature was no weather event. It was my own mother, as violent as any other natural disaster.
Gideon Mar 8
Drive me to a cheap motel.
Pay for a week, the one after as well.
But what do I do when I can’t save up money?
“We’ll worry about it if it happens, honey.”
Daddy, I’m scared, and Mommy I’m tired.
If you push too hard, I might just expire.
I’m losing time, and I’m losing hope.
So I just tend to dissociate to cope.
I made three new alters in just the last week,
But you don’t listen, don’t know what that means.
I do want to survive, live, be alive,
But I’ll need more help if you want me to survive.
Please love me now, like I needed love then.
If not as a parent, at least as a friend?
Mom, I know you hate me. No, no, it’s true,
But the only person you hate more is you.
And Dad, I don’t lie when I love you I say,
But stand for yourself, not your wife, just one day.
You both have raised me, shaped me, molded me,
But the person you think I am isn’t the person I wanna be.
I’m your son, though I know it’s hard to adjust.
I find it hard to love and harder to trust.
The people who raised me, taught me, bathed me.
When I ask for acceptance, don’t make me say please.
In the end, we all need therapy, I think,
But don’t dismiss the truth I will speak.
Gideon Mar 8
Dear One… No. Feared One.
I want an apology, an epiphany. Why can’t you see what you’ve done to me?
You say, “I don’t believe.” *****, please! I see it in your walk, the pain in every step.
Do you hear it when I talk, the nights that I have wept? There is pain in every word
because none of them are heard. Past your bleeding lies, but I just use my eyes.
To see past your deception, every little false conception. Should I even mention
How you failed to mention that I am your reflection? Your twisted perception
Paints you as the victim. I am your creation. Why would you create me as I am,
but hate me as I became myself? You hate yourself. You see a mirror in my blue eyes, And your many lies are laid bare. I tear through the ******* to see you.
Alone and afraid of what you have made. Oh, Feared One, you thought I was done?
I have just begun. You’re not the only one who’s words are loaded like a rifle.
Other’s think it’s just a trifle, but your words are a weapon which you’ve chosen
to harm. Sound the alarm, but my f-bomb won’t do as much damage
as your constant brain hemorrhage.
Gideon Mar 8
The shadow in the mirror reminds me not of myself but of my father.
He stands behind my mother’s chair like an advisor to the queen.
He does not poison her mind or plan treason against her throne.
Her tyranny extends to the invisible shackles on his long-broken mind.

The ghost in the mirror reminds me not of myself but of my brother.
Though he has died, he never passed on to the better place he deserves.
His phantom lingers in my mind, trying to reach out and touch this plane.
He can’t feel the tender dew on the soft grass unless he uses my hands.

The witch in the mirror reminds me not of myself but of my sister.
Though she has left the inner coven, she is still trapped under her oath.
Her spells of cord-cutting and separation can only do so much against it.
As her mistress sleeps, her work to free herself from her bond does not stop.

The monster in the mirror reminds me not of myself but of my mother.
She controls our movements like a puppet on a string, never stopping.
There is no freedom to reign over my or my family’s actions but hers.
Her little marionettes may never break free from the suffering they endure.
Gideon Mar 8
I think this time I’m crying,
Not for the many people I have lost,
but for those I have never had to begin with.
My mother is somehow on both lists,
though I’m sure she doesn’t think so.
My father’s name sits next to hers on the list,
As he always sits next to her. By her side,
And on her side every time, every day.
My grandmother was on the first list
until the day she revealed her soul to me.
Her heart had wrinkles and scars more
gruesome than her youthful smile could hide.

I think this time I’m crying,
Not for the mistakes I’ve made,
But for the memories I didn’t.
My childhood sits at the top of the list,
A foggy blur of grey and white.
My mother’s genuine smile is beside it,
A beautiful sight I think I’ll never see.
My birthdays are each lined up neatly,
Each one a day set aside just for me.
The last thing on the list is scratched out.
Someone I swear I knew once, but don’t
Remember even the song of their name.
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