Come, I’ll give you a kiss, you’ll feel anxious like this

She was very small and very much
didn’t have a clue why you were shouting insults.
And then she was awkward and very much
didn’t know who she was, or why you were still
shouting insults. Why you didn’t say I Love You.
So when boys told her they did she clung to it
with everything she had. Engaged at sixteen, before
he became what he was. She ran from you but
didn’t work on the fragments left in her small intestine.
And then when she is twenty one, alone in bed at
eleven twenty one at night, she will not be able to sleep
because she can’t stop thinking of sheep,
or why the sad things come back when she closes her eyes.
Wondering if it is your fault or if you were just the first.
When her skin burns everything feels easily categorized,
It all slots into boxes in front of her eyes, no more lies or humanity,
just the feel of her skin and true physicality.
I have to be more than what this is.
It’s embarrassing to have to admit, I don’t fit
into those ideals. I definitely am not a perfect mother
and If I could, for her, I’d choose another but the way
she makes me feel means I’m selfish, I love her.
It makes me angry to acknowledge.
I’m strong, powerful, a Queen amongst paupers
and still I’m drowning in two inches of lukewarm water.
Buck the fuck up, jade. You have a daughter.


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