Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Devereaux Dec 2020
Sometimes I think about my mother as a child
Skinny and shivering in a house without food, caring for two younger siblings
I think of how she poured love into every house we lived in
Every bit of lace, every flower of picture meant to make us feel safe
I think about how I ripped her apart for every mistake she made
How angry I was, every cruel thing I said that makes my mouth taste like bile to remember.
How I pushed and pushed.
Scratched and clawed. Not wanting to be loved. Wanting to be loved more. Wanting her to leave me alone. Needing her to pay attention to me.
I think about how she never made us share rooms, always let us have our space because she never did.
How young she was when she had my sister
I think about all the things she had to go through and everything she missed
How she doesn’t blame us
How she hates being touched but let’s me cling to her, cry into her shoulder or her lap.
How her love could encircle all of us.
I actually read this to my mom this Christmas. We had a very rocky and tense relationship when I was younger and now our relationship is very important to me. She appreciated it and actually asked me to send her a copy.

She’s also an incredibly well-read woman who loves literature so she appreciated that I had wrote her something.

Given that she’s struggling it meant a lot to make her happy. So I thought I’d post it here too.
Devereaux Dec 2020
I can feel you
The possibility of you
Curled at my back
Fingers running through the short hair at the nape of my neck that I know needs to be cut
Nails scratching
Gently
Your wrist brushes my spine right where it meets my shoulders
A sweet pressure that I embrace, lean into
I cannot smell you or taste you but I hear your slow breath, muffled by my pillow.
Feeling the warmth you provide even in the cold
Even without you
I close my eyes, it’s all I can do, and breathe as you breathe
I wait, hold myself, knowing that one day I will turn, rolling over in the dark
And bump shoulders with you
And will smell your scent
Taste the sweat of your skin
That I will not be alone with the thought of you forever
This is not a taunt or a torture
Simply a foretelling of something that will be

— The End —