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12+

dad's hair and mother's hatred

by AilahEvelynMae


(TW for mention brief of suicide in second section)

i got my dad's hair

and my mother's hatred.

i can cut my hair

and dye it

but i am always left with

the piece of me

that is a piece of her.

-

i got my dad's eyes

and the pain my uncle felt

when he took his own life.

i can squint and blur everything

in front of me,

but i can never escape what my uncle took from me

and everything he left behind

embedded in who i have become.

-

i got my dad's smile

and grandma's perfectionism.

i can grin at any stranger

and spread kindness like wildfire,

but i can never feel like

i have done enough

been enough

or helped enough

to love myself.

-

i guess i think the way my mother does,

but that is everything i try to hide about myself

everything i am powerless to change.


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15 Reviews

Points: 252
Reviews: 15

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Sat Feb 10, 2024 1:50 pm
Cozmo2024 wrote a review...



Hi! Cozmo here to give you a short and sweet review!

Wow, first off I'd like to say that this poem had really hit the emotions. What I admire from this poem is how you write with such passion, and I can really feel the tone of the message that you're bringing to the reader.
In the lines: "i got my dad's smile

and grandma's perfectionism.

i can grin at any stranger

and spread kindness like wildfire,

but i can never feel like

i have done enough

been enough

or helped enough

to love myself."

I could really feel how much the speaker is trying to get their message across to the reader, and it's working. I am very impressed with the wording as well, for example the lines: "i can squint and blur everything

in front of me,

but i can never escape what my uncle took from me

and everything he left behind

embedded in who i have become."

I could really feel the tragedy that the writer is going through.
This poem hits very hard on the emotions, I'm very impressed.
Awesome work!
Bye bye!
- Cozmo :)





I lingered round them, under that benign sky: watched the moths fluttering among the heath and harebells, listened to the soft wind breathing through the grass, and wondered how any one could ever imagine unquiet slumbers for the sleepers in that quiet earth.
— Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heights