#motherchild
My mom isn’t dead
her heart still beats,
just not loud enough to reach me.
My mom isn’t dead
she still breathes,
but she never spends a breath saying my name.
My mom isn’t dead
she pours herself into my siblings,
leaving nothing left to spill my way.
My mom isn’t dead,
and somehow that’s what hurts the most.
Because I’m grieving someone
who still walks this earth.
I watch her love from a distance,
like it’s behind glass
close enough to see,
too far to touch.
My mom isn’t dead,
but the version of her that loved me
is.
If it was ever really there to begin with
And some days I wish I were,
not because I want to disappear,
but because all I want
is for my mom
to love me.
Jan 26
Jan 26, 2026 at 5:48 PM UTC
With a bit of mud upon their peak
a pair of tiny birds ventured into our abode.
I asked my mother, tinged with excitement
“Mother! Why have they graced our home?”
“To craft their dwelling,” replied Mother.
My childhood routine altered—
to oversee the endeavors of those winged beings
and witness the splendid nest they shaped.
Then came the day when Mother uttered,
“The swallows have birthed their offspring.”
Swiftly,
the fledglings matured, mastering the art of flight
and on one uncertain day
they soared away from the nest
yet didn’t return.
My heart echoed the emptiness
of the now-deserted nest.
Mother sighed and shared,
“It appears, the fledglings have departed their nests.”
Weary of my persistent inquiries
regarding the rationale behind their departure
Mother, one day, responded with irritation—
“Their progeny has blossomed into adulthood
they’ve left the haven of the nest
bound to their mates
busy crafting a new abode afar.”
I rushed to Mother
clasped her in a tight embrace, and
with resolute tones, proclaimed,
“Mother! I’ll never make another home!
I’ll stay forever young!”
-०-
Jun 7, 2025
Jun 7, 2025 at 12:03 AM UTC