"tuberculosis" poems
Her man had left for California.
Left her with nothing but the dog
to fight the emptiness of her apartment.
She told me she couldn't sleep anymore,
told me she couldn't eat anymore.
She got sick,
so sick— swore that it was
tuberculosis, malaria, typhoid fever—
My experience led me to my own diagnosis;
another case of a love long lost.
I didn't have the heart to tell her.
Instead I slept with her,
despite the risk of sickness.
She was afraid it was contagious.
I laughed, told her I would
take the risk.
I stayed there two weeks, laughing.
She could eat again,
she could smile again,
she made up love late into the night.
It seemed like this
quarantine was paradise.
Till up one night there was a
knock on the door.
It seemed like her bags
were already packed.
It seemed like she was gone
within the few moments it took to see
who it was behind the door.
Told me to lock up the
apartment, leave the key under the
*** of wilted hydrangeas.
He was back from California.
It seemed like she was cured—
of her malaria, her yellow fever, her cholera—
Just like that, a clean bill of health.
A modern day
miracle.
It seemed to have been
contagious,
after all.
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 1:06 PM UTC
With curvy spines grow all the trees,
As though they passed round scoliosis
Like people pass a cold and sneeze,
Or swine-flu, or tuberculosis.
O.O
Oct 25, 2015
Oct 25, 2015 at 2:58 PM UTC
My tuberculosis infected heart
spits blood
and
stays away from light
lives in humidity causing fungus growing
In my inside.
My tb infected heart caughs from all its holes
at night
it never sleeps
nevear eats
it's lost it's appetite for people and joy
and laughs
My tb infected heart will die soaked
in smoke
they'll burn its bed, its clothes
every crumble of feelings
and I will be left naked
with blood stains on my skin
My tb infected heart
lives in isolation
between walls of mirrors reflecting
the misery of my mind
It lives in fear and shame
hungrily waiting for death to come
for them to burn its bed.
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 10:42 AM UTC
I see a flash
A sight to behold
The work of an immortal sculptor
Walking straight in elegant pride
Worth of a princess of the sun
Firmly transfixed in her twelve
Moving into the emptiness of an invalid society
Her innocence screaming
In an unchallenged clarity
And only twelve moons
The framework of her modeling salivates
Wolves in men
Who’s been exposed to the virus
Emerging from the bush land of their desires
To seek their vengeance in a fanatical hatred
And poor me the princess
With the *** lunacy roaming the streets,
Sanity of abstinence is the greatest challenge.
Swung from poverty to adolescence
A pendulum of fates
Hunger at home for the family
And her homestead a moonscape of desolation
The two hundred shillings does the trick
She trades out her innocence
And virginity too; a girls pride
And alongside the legal tender
Comes the virus
The minute monster
Savoring a society of huge minds.
There is the tuberculosis
In a hospital ward
Full of undug graves and shrines unnamed.
Drawn into the vacuum of her fate
Eyes wide open in dismal finality
The princess
Lie in freeze frame of death
A pyramid of events
Molded out of her last several terrible seconds
Lamentation for the society
A dull eulogy for our girls.
Jun 23, 2012
Jun 23, 2012 at 5:19 AM UTC
I see a flash
A sight to behold
The work of an immortal sculptor
Walking straight in elegant pride
Worth of a princess of the sun
Firmly transfixed in her twelve
Moving into the emptiness of an Invalid society
Her innocence screaming
In an unchallenged clarity
And only twelve moons
The framework of her modelling salivates
Wolves in men
Who's been exposed to the virus
Emerging from the bushland of their desires
To seek their vengeance in a fanatical hatred
And poor me the Princess
With the *** Lunacy roaming the streets
Sanity of abstinence is the greatest challenge.
Swung from poverty to adolescence
A pendulum of fates
Hunger at home for the family
And her homestead a moonscape of desolation.
The two Hundred shillings does the trick
She trades out her innocence
And virginity too- a girl's pride
And alongside the legal tender comes the virus
The minute Monster
Savoring a society of huge minds.
There is the tuberculosis
In a hospital ward
Full of undug graves and shrines unnamed
Drawn into the vacuum of her fate
Eyes wide open in dismal finality
The princess
Lie in freeze frame of death
A pyramid of events
Molded out of her last several terrible seconds
Lamentation for the society
A dull eulogy
For our girls.
Feb 16, 2012
Feb 16, 2012 at 2:03 AM UTC
Keats was twenty-four
when he wrote, "To Autumn"
then he died of tuberculosis
when he was twenty-five.
I will be twenty
in twenty-six days.
In one thousand,
eight hundred,
and fifty-two days,
I will have outlived Keats' age.
so it is then,
that I will decide,
if I am a
has-been or never-was
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 7:16 PM UTC
It was a beautiful night,
Which is rare in this city.
A full moon illuminated
The dark sky with great
Brilliance like a devine
Light bulb hanging over
The earth from heaven.
Not a single star out,
But that wasn't new
For big old Cairo.
A light breeze blew
By as I stood in the
Balcony of my family's
5th floor apartment
With winter's shy
Fingertips touching
The air around me.
I took a deep lung-full
Of this beautiful weather
And coughed like an
Eighty year old man
Suffering form mean
Tuberculosis.
The burning of the
Rice hay, they say.
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 5:03 AM UTC
God
Might move the deadline
For our Chinese script
But I'm still mad at him
For keeping me up
At the grand hour of 11
In the evening graphing
Over (and over)
Again business charts that
Have crooked smiles almost
As blank and bleak
As their returns on investment.
And speaking of which,
This extra eighty grand I spent
At this school, ogling at textbooks I could
Never work up the courage to read,
Is finally starting to break my back.
Weakly, I'll tell you
How much I hate school—
How her consonants sound synonymous
To "scoliosis,"
And peel off my shirt and prove it to you
But that would be careless.
And careless is something in me hand-bound
By iron clad futures and
Graying dreams,
Perhaps that of a dead stock broker
Feet dangling off the roof of
The Philippine Stock Exchange,
And even then that's
Straying too far from home:
A cardboard box business
Resting by a
Tuberculosis-riddled sea.
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 10:21 AM UTC
*there is a tourniquet on his tongue.
he is a risqué bloke
with alkaloid fingers,
they are wearing
yellow asylum jackets
yet he calls me
mad-
emoiselle, his, in between the lines
he cuts with razorblades and mirrors.
i find myself in between legs
of a stanza (not standing),
pale femurs and inner thighs
french-kissing into
surpine ampersands
where the first word
is a proclaimed ugly disease -- perhaps 'love.'
and the other, its escapade -- perhaps 'tuberculosis.'
but i must be the period:
oxidised bones.
within the eyes
of a stanza (still not standing)
abides no fancy lines
no avarice for contemplative meanings
there is but space and void
and i've filled his femur marrows
with metaphors
to the verge of the patella.
he writes poetry for me
with a needle
and an eight-ball.
there is a tourniquet on his tongue
and his spine fits my stocking
seamlessly.*
Dec 9, 2010
Dec 9, 2010 at 5:12 AM UTC
You want to know what's unfair?
Unfair is having diagnosed with pulmonary tuberculosis at the age of 22 despite never having smoked a single cigarette your entire life.
Unfair is having to take 3 months unpaid leave because you're "not safe" to be around anybody.
What's not fair is the inability to walk 5 steps to the kitchen without running out of breath.
What's not fair is the never ending painful coughs at night and having neighbours complaining.
You know what's unfair?
Unfair is losing half of your lung in a battle you never started.
What's unfair is hearing your family members talking behind your back claiming you have Aids, despite never been with a woman before.
What's unfair is fighting so hard to get back on your feet, to get back to full recovery only to get the news that you are now diagnosed with Bronchitis;
Hearing that you will never be able to run like you used to.
That you will never be able play soccer again.
What's unfair is the constant fear that follows after.
The fear that no girl would ever want you.
The constant fear that you might never be able to satisfy any girl.
The fear that, what if you get someone sick despite being 100% cleared?
Now that is unfair.
Unfair is whilst other people take few days to heal from cold and flue, you have to take weeks of antibiotic treatment, just to rid off the same cold.
What's unfair is people constantly thinking your TB is back everytime that cold starts.
Unfair is constantly having to explain why you breathe so heavily.
Unfair is always trying to act "normal"
You really wanna know what's unfair?
Unfair is having your brother lose the battle against the same TB you won against 3 years ago.
What's unfair is having him leave behind his 3 year old with no one.
What's unfair is that you didn't choose any of this.
And Unfair is writing all of this with a broken heart and a tear rolling down my cheek, because this is a true story.
It's My story. And regardless, I'm Still here.
Mar 26, 2019
Mar 26, 2019 at 3:07 AM UTC
There is a point in everyone's lives
Where they wake up screaming
To discover they haven't been sleeping
And then they go to sleep
And can't wake up
God's humor is a punchline
Of straight faced barbarians
In the shapes of a funnel cloud
That coughs up battle hymns
Like pieces of tuberculosis
Love is chemical reactions
That bounce off the walls of your brain
Like children playing pong
That will lose their virginity to each other
He died when she left
Women are works of art
That are made of the bruises of an apple
And the sweet parts are cut out
Like the passages in the Bible
That the priest won't read on Sundays
Who's afraid of Charlie Darwin?
Was on the sidewalk in chalk
And every pedestrian walked by
And walked into a war zone
While a mutt licked the words disappeared
Apr 22, 2011
Apr 22, 2011 at 3:12 PM UTC
as i said before, the real active ingredient in cigarettes is not nicotine, nicotine is the flavoursome bit, the real active ingredient is carbon monoxide, the thing that spins your head a little on the first cigarette of the day.
oh god my nicotine hangovers
are worse than my alcohol hangovers,
i get this cough when waking
that makes schnitzel from my lungs
on the cough up (you'd think
it was tuberculosis), but recedes
once enough active ingregient in
my addiction is inhaled...
but the odd thing is...
when by odd chance i do get the classical
hangover with a headache...
my nicotine hangover is not apparent,
i don't cough...
and i cure this hangover by not
trying to think, thinking and brain
pain don't work together...
so i lie in bed, sing some rammstein
and later drink enough coffee
for the caffeine cure of increasing
blood pressure / blood flow;
or the classical hangover could be due
to the fact that i was headbanging to
sepultura's ratamahatta...
any coin flip is just as good to explain
this scenario.
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 2:31 PM UTC
The Immigration Act
of 1917,
barred
"all idiots & imbeciles,
feeble-minded persons,
epileptics,
insane persons,
... persons with chronic alcoholism;
paupers,
& professional beggars,
and those with tuberculosis"
It barred ...
"felons,
polygamists,
prostitutes
& their traffickers."
Trump & Bannon's
Immigration Act of 2017
bars Muslims,
able-bodied Muslims,
needy Muslims,
starving Muslims,
fleeing Muslims.
Muslims in refugee camps,
student doctor Muslims,
short-sighted Muslims,
limping Muslims,
school-teacher Muslims,
ordinary Muslims,
in a word,
Muslims.
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 11:01 PM UTC
Have you ever had bronchitis?
Tuberculosis?
Have you ever shot pigeons?
Been to prison?
Played with yourself?
Have you ever been to Egypt?
Told stories of your backyard?
Been to two places at once?
Are you religious?
Have you had dental surgery?
Does your knee hurt?
Are you scared stiff?
Do you envision everything working out?
Are there toys in your closet you haven’t played with?
Are you sexually satisfied?
Do you cry at the drop of a hat?
A sad song?
A beautiful sunset?
Does the mere act of hugging make you long for more?
When will you be happy?
Are you already happy?
Does your medical record tell your whole story?
Do the stories you tell reflect the whole you?
Are you free to visit your true self on a daily basis?
When will it be too much?
Where do we go from here?
Are there aspects of your life you would rather not talk about?
Or are you willing to tell all?
Who is your best friend?
What can we have for dinner?
How hungry are you?
For ***
For companionship?
For peace of mind?
Will there be ample time to figure it out?
When?
Why are you so impatient?
Is it your age?
Your name here_________________ (not required)
Mar 3, 2012
Mar 3, 2012 at 3:13 AM UTC
All estuaries flow eastbound, and the subterranean rail tracks keep forcing against the estuaries’ grain and dust foundations perpendicularly to them.
How can a sane proposition -- a quantification of syntax execution (those squirming cuticles through bonds of regression)— an excessive reflection, reflexive inspection,
Prove its sanity through continued suggestion?
Deductive insurrections stirred in memory,
A rumble, causing sediments to crumble,
Wineglasses balanced atop countertops tumble.
Spilling contents upon the grained wooden, elitists' floors.
"Anesthetic, onsetting tuberculosis in breath patterns,
Gavels ringing on rigged tolling tongs in caverns,
Dark tolerances to Copernican astronomy in shadows,
And the handle grinds as boxcar wheels' flints and steels catch and spark in addled locks," I mumbled from a half-nap.
It was surgery, the smooth procedures on the moving trains,
The gains and plectrums scraped against the brains' spider veins,
To reorganize the sane, to bridge the broken definitions changed,
To prevent arguments' bone structure from fractures and sprains.
"Use gavels against the scalpels, sculpt with their judgment," a corona dream's habitant corrugated.
He pounded the gavel's end against the knife to chisel at the pituitary gland pulsing in his subject,
And her arms flailed like a horse's legs in heat-induced convulsion.
I thought it was done.
The Canson Merue train screamed in the night under earth to Yellowknife to meet Canadian soil as the Heavy Breather pounded his gavel.
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC
I took a trip down the ecstatic abyss of Amoria
Through narrow crooked bylanes and juniper dumpsters
Peering through moments of insipid laughter
Prime pranksters, nerdsters and gooseberry gangsters
Languishing through marauding beauracratic rituals
Peering through unexpected ideals and benign gestures
Then out in this rugged terrain lay the bear with cold feet
Eyes like blessed blue whales and timid water hyacinth
Narrow corridors of limbs endowed with firm yet hollow muscles
Tuberculosis and octopus gunk lay smeared in every nostril
"Ah! Nauseating yet divine!" said the knight to the pitiful jester
Rowan Moses
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 10:51 PM UTC
He was afraid that if she closed her eyes they would never open again
She was always tired these days, her smile stunted, the crinkling in her eyes when she laughed, foreshadowed by the tears,
Like rain droplets underneath which they danced at 3 pm in the Missouri crossings,
And after the luminous laughs shared and warmth shared between their lips came her sickness, closer than ever, threatening to force them apart
Fever always forced her way inside her head, and cough rented her lungs paying the rent in the form of monthly hospital trips
He always held her hand, kissing the back of her palm, clutching it harder than an addicts grip on white powder,
They diagnosed her with tuberculosis, her lungs, breathed out melodies of Coldplay and Laura marling for him when the night felt too long,
Now they breathed in his pain, his fear of losing her to darkness.
Her sunken pale face, wishing on anything and everything that proves to be lucky, an eyelash, sight of a black car when driving underneath train on a bridge,
Crossing fingers to survive through this nightmare that has sketched its outline,
And filled its grey shades in their lives.
He cocoons his body around her in the white bed, her fragile body, connected with an I-V, they could have been a beautiful butterfly, but destiny stunted their growth
She just wants to close her eyes to wish, for the last time, to be able to see his face every day for the rest of the eternity,
But he is afraid that if she closes her eyes, she might never open them again.
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 2:14 PM UTC
You’ve heard of us, I’m sure. We’ve been corrupting the living since life was old enough to be corrupt.
We are why humans scrub, rinse, wash up, wipe down, and die.
At first, we were just travelers. Useless wanderers floating through space and content with having no purpose at all.
Until one of us bumped into, and sunk into, something with a dangerous potential. Something intricate with all sorts of systems that would soon be tainted with this single bump.
It was nice, I guess the first one might have thought, To feel more important than this thing with all of the potential in the world. To corrupt it.
Not all of us damage humans for the sport of it, like Arenavirus Infection, Fibromyalgia, Cryptococcosis, Tuberculosis, Cancer, and many others do.
Some are just afraid of humans. They attack them because they are afraid of the medicines they create, which doesn’t make any sense because in doing this they singularly are more likely to be killed.
Most do enjoy making peoples ill.
The more competitive ones have made rules.
Alright, they’d say, Next one to swim in this lake will catch me.
If they aren’t wearing a coat, and it is below sixty degrees Fahrenheit, their defenses are down and they deserve us.
Well, they shouldn’t be so vain as to purposefully tan their skin.
More points to whoever claims the one with the feeble immune system.
I however, do not feel that it is necessary to attack the humans. We are, after all, supposed to be wanderers.
I am Influenza. I wholly, have killed or touched millions of humans.
I singularly, as .253667IFL, have never touched any object at all and probably won’t for thousands of years to come.
And while I have made this decision and while I don’t believe that it is necessary to attack humans and while I have the potential to, I do not feel sympathy toward the humans.
It is not because I am unlike them, in fact it’s just the opposite.
If there is anything Earth’s Illnesses can agree on, it is something that we have all learned in our travels:
That it is impossible for one to pity something that shares the same potential as them.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 1:14 PM UTC
The Social Media
In the basement kitchen cold cement floor no hot water
a towel hung on a nail, wash you face a corner each and your hands
to dry, after a loo visit it also gave us tuberculosis
bad skin, and rashes. But we were lucky there was no social
media, kind ladies to do good, take a picture of misery and feel like they
as they had done something helpful pressing coins into our hands.
****** people their finery was an offence to those who had nothing
like giving a Bible to one who cannot read; the hope is that they got
head lice because we could not give them the *****
A war was over for us it was just the beginning of a deliberate rise to
self -respect the Social Media was not interested in this the butterflies
of self- aggrandisement
Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 4:48 AM UTC
On the night of women, Yoruyoru Yoruyoru Yoruyoru,
a business war in the United States in the war,
but the war in the United States, is so well known
that she had written in blue and white jewelry
on the approach of the Soviet Union.
European glass of power to the woman, as the eyes of the East
and 3 from the heart of the dead from the heart in the world in the mirror
in the house is completely lost to me:
The latest party Adult RomeDoor.png Christian warrior FLINT
Hillside Minnesota is a give and take as rise Intolerantia as a little kid;
Wind of the fame of the rich wildlife Yokuza pieces, a company
in the United States of eczema, eczema, 7 days, in Greece,
and brought him to be, as regards the name of the cocktail to the way
of the true honor of John the Baptist | is the stone which was beautiful,
he was sitting up against Babylon, to fly about;
Window in the window is the feeling of the women
littering the family tree,
every half-Australian stripper, public nudist camp scientist
who lives in the Philosophy of Science, said,
"It's more a crime to support a criminal rather than a world
which is plagued by the face of a Panegyric, |
who is supposed to campaign |
in world history. "in fact, I was in a military camp in the Tanaka Establishing a conceptual Ivana as a Localizer dancing
Localizer, what charming Chinese dollars to play a full-time
unknown dancing silver and long-term debt financing institution
as the optics go false on the original charge of ****
and Ethel 500 Sisun thinks it should be a hot girl playing
with Einstein's first entry into the jack jack jacket USMC Mild Toes
and muscle fat o' credit mock abduction can bring
Ten ten ten ten flute
playing Aka Tuberculosis with the Arab world,
you walk down to play
the game, and the game continues, A drug
Oct 24, 2018
Oct 24, 2018 at 5:26 AM UTC
Kismat, that was what it was.
Fate.
I left his hands shivering.
I knew we could never see each other again.
As his parents pulled him away from me, like I was tuberculosis.
I remember the one word, he said
"Kismat".
I fought my tears and my desired heart cried like a tired child for that one fond look.
When I love,
I leave no stone unturned.
And as I remember the man who taught me love,
I realize that our love was like the creeping vine which withers when it has nothing to embrace.
Aug 7, 2017
Aug 7, 2017 at 3:46 AM UTC
A poet is courageous
The voice of truth
Pulling away the veil
Helping those who listen
Realize that the lies
Like two left sided shoes
Will make it easy
To walk in circles
A poet is courageous;
A poet is courageous
When he or she speaks to
Their own personal journey
You see-
I could spew angry indifference as
Newspaper headlines and
Main stream media
Incite hopelessness and despair
So, unless you have walked
Alongside tuberculosis ridden
children of Haiti and
Held on to a tiny little hand
That grew tired of
Holding on to hope
As they fade into yesterday..
Speak your truth!
Until you know the sound
Of mortar or artillery fire
When it rains down upon
A village and
Topple its houses like
A deck of cards;
The sound of bricks
Turning to rubble
As lives crumble
Hope lost in the
Particles of dust that
Linger within the smoke that
Dances amongst the
Deafening silence of
The innocent.
Speak your truth!
Speak of that which
Has tested your resolve
That which when revisited
Takes you to that place where
Love picked up the broken pieces
That once made up your life,
That place where-
Hurt tore through every
Fiber of your being as you
Drowned in your tears
Speak of that place where.
Hope finally gave you
The strength to
Write through the pain or
Pic up a mic and
Watch everyone hang on to
Your every word as
You feel that lump in
Your throat makes
Your voice crack
And your palms sweat because,
The reciting of a poem has
Become a recounting of
Of a story that
Is life
Your life
Out on display.
A poet is courageous
The voice of truth
Show us that
Taking off the veil
Allowed you to see
Our two left sided shoes
So then maybe Poet
Just maybe,
We may all-
Stop walking in circles......
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 10:49 AM UTC
I think Jealousy is a shameful feeling
A sacred pact made with
an unknown demon
A bitter resentment of a past
complication
A mirrored messiah judging
all your thinking
Tuberculosis fit in the modern human
mind
and body stained with a dark
religion
Jealousy is a monsters making
Yet, perhaps,
the most Human of feelings
n.b.
Sep 22, 2019
Sep 22, 2019 at 6:05 AM UTC
When, like cancer, people fear war and death
as a rat fears a cat;
when people detest war and death
like a dead rotten rat that spreads intolerable bad smell
which way a mad dog detests water for its hydrophobia;
when a bright city crowded like a river full to the brim
gets vacant all on a sudden just after seeing a gun-
what can the city be named then?
Avoiding war is the nature of the Queen of Sheba
because a woman means getting boiled like an egg
lying under the aggressive virility of a man
surrendering completely to his lust;
and a man is always like the King Solomon,
at whose beckoning with finger the Queen of Sheba
along with her state gets belonged to him.
But what a city is it, where the disgraced men
hearing the name of war enter the latrines running fast
like the patients of diarrhoea?
What an ill-fated country is it, where men and women
calumniate the war in their sky-rending chorus?
In ancient days women chose only knights and warriors
as their bridegrooms; and for their beloved heroes,
they made ready their shields and swords
so that they could leap into the fathomless beauty of war
if the battle-drum was heard beating.
When they returned to their homes, their wives welcomed them laying their hearts and tears of eyes under their feet.
If they got martyred, the wives felt proud of losing their husbands, as the full Moon feels proud of sacrificing
her light for the earth.
When a woman gets inclined only to her body,
when no noble thought can enter her brain
except the thought of her ****** only then
she clasps her bed-mate like pincers
listening to the sweet slogan of a procession.
But tell me, o *** men, which cancer makes men
such boneless like earth-worms?
Being affected by which tuberculosis, men start shouting heart and soul like ***** saying 'Save!Save!’
listening to the maddening war-song in the air and the sky?
When people detest war and death like a dead rotten rat that spreads intolerable bad smell which way a mad dog detests water for its hydrophobia, that habitation then
can be called a country of worthless people
where the sun should not rise ever,
it should not rain
and crops should not grow in the fields.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 11:50 AM UTC
Some people asked me why I need to leave my mother’s house.
She was a fragile woman.
Alone and old.
I should have taken care of her while I can.
The truth is, sometimes I love her.
But most of the times…
all I remember is how she kicked me in the shin
that left a wound for months.
How she, while I’m sick from tuberculosis,
dragged me outside the house
because I don’t have the appetite to eat.
The neighbors had to beg for me.
The neighbors gave me sympathy that my mother refused to give out of anger.
I was only a child.
The truth is, she is an amazing woman for a few days.
But she is a whole different monster if you overstayed.
Is it bad to hold grudges?
For 25 years, I was the emotional punching bag of a sad woman.
And now people asks me why I need to leave my mother alone.
If I don’t leave,
If by the grace of gods I stayed with her,
everyday will be a constant reliving of memories I have tried so hard to bury.
Everyday,
my hate will grow larger than what I can contain.
Everyday I will wish she was dead.
People don’t like it when I tell them this.
They say something along the lines of they hope my kid won’t do this to me.
Or that I didn’t have any gratitude for my own mother.
For raising me alone.
For sacrificing her happiness.
Is it okay to be thankful but not want to be around that person?
Why do I need to be punished for my mother’s small jabs of abuse?
Isn’t healing my inner child
and trying to get the courage to leave
enough of a punishment?
I am pregnant now.
I will try my best to not be like my mother.
To not be full of rage.
My kids will not have to tiptoe around my emotions.
I will create a home that’s
forgiving,
welcoming,
kind.
“It’s okay.”
“I love you.”
“I’m sorry.”
I will shield them from the shadows that haunted me for 30 years.
The abuse ends with me.
The abuse ends with me.
Mar 31, 2024
Mar 31, 2024 at 3:25 AM UTC