Three years old.

I am grateful to you
for those nine months, and
nothing more. For the basic
beginning that set my body alive
and beating.

Because now I have legs
to run from your toxicity.
Arms to push you away
from my daughter with your
bitter words, and lips to say no with.
And I’m not three anymore.
You must listen.

She is three in two weeks,
the exact moment you stopped
sharing your love as though it had
ran out, as though there isn’t enough
to go around. I am brimming with love for her.
For years to come, for moons to rise,
my girl will know love and hope
your time has come to pass.
You’re no mother to me,
i am free at last.


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