a mothers love is heavy enough to split the world in half, but the gravity of yours was like the moons, and i wondered for many years if that was all i was worth. nevertheless, i text you "Happy Mother's Day" and wait for your reply.
i have ink in my skin that i'll never be able to get rid of there are reminders of you in even the most sacred of places, i shift the mirror and you're there
i fold my laundry in silence, as im taught to be still with dignity and meekness but the tears fall as i couple the socks and they dont stop even after all the hangers are full. i have these grievances and im not sure what to do with them with patience, i try to wait until laundry day to be the pitiful woman that i really am
i feel less than what i could be revolving around the same routines sometimes, i forget what the flowers smell like, because i don't see any from my finger-printed window
my hands are clammy, my hands are worn from rummaging somewhere in the sand searching in my soul for something that won't slip so easily through my fingers
i could be a published writer, i could use my college degree i could be a smiling woman but i've always been so much less than what i could be
i haven't spent my year living instead, waiting for life in me but the present is a gift for it is said, the days are evil so i ought to live today not just living, but living with gratitude, only achievable with my eyes fixed upon something outside of myself, something greater someone holier, someone good i've had my eyes closed, dreaming but in this life, i must face reality for i have been blessed with it
life started to become about what we lacked rather than what we had but don't we have so much almost too much to be thankful for when we think about it? there's nothing inherently wrong with wanting but the zinnias will not bloom in winter just because we want them to some things are just nature nature not designed by us
one day i hope to be too busy for this place but never too busy to write, for the day my pen dries of ink is the day my mind has been tarnished and emptied completely; i fear one day i'll lose my mind, and nothing good will come out of it, except maybe death, because i would rather lose everything than lose my ability to cultivate creativity— perhaps i am naïve for thinking such a way.
we always swell before the chorus but you leave me on a flat note and all i can hear are the violins that linger as it all fades to black sometimes i think we are something except we always go no where and i'm left with the stars staring down at me like a disappointment
I'll never be a mystery I’m too easy to read I may not make sense but all my puzzle pieces lay face-up on the table and the picture is on the box, plain—explicit,
