Warning: This work has been rated 16+ for language.
tw: sh and mommy issues lol
I don’t know why,
But I cried through the whole night.
From sundown to sunrise.
It was a steady streamlined cry,
Nothing dramatic like hard hics and sobs.
Just a stream of hot wet salty tears that flowed without much trouble down my cheeks. And pooled at my collarbone.
It could’ve been a number of reasons that made me cry,
But I think the most prominent was for myself.
I was giving myself a solo mourning session, for a dead childhood
And the loss of a maternal love,
If it was even there in the first place.
I cried over all the things I hated about myself
Specifically all the thing she gave me.
Like her love for poetry,
She really fucked me over with that one.
Her artistic skill,
Her facial structure,
All these things she gave to me,
And I can no longer love these things about me.
She stole that from me.
I’ve always been an artist,
I paint pictures with words
And feelings with pictures.
I scribbled furiously for years,
Sharpening those skills,
Erupting with creativity and projects.
But then they started the comparisons.
“She used to do that when she was your age.”
“She’s always had an artistic touch.”
“You’re so much like her.”
And suddenly the eruption stopped.
The tap dwindled then snapped shut,
And the pens dried up,
The paper in the sketchbooks wrinkled and fell to pieces,
The watercolors smeared together,
And the acrylics dried and cracked.
I always loved my eyes,
I received compliments like roses.
They shone like jade placed in my eye sockets.
But they’re hers and that’s all I can see in them anymore,
So I gouged them out and gave them back.
She gave me her hair and she braided it and doted over it so I had to shave it all off and dye it black.
She gave me her high cheek bones so I cut them off.
She gave me so much and took so much more but worst of all
She gave me her name.
And until I am dead or those who know me are, there will always be someone who remembers.
Remembers that I have her name, an invisible brand into my skin.
I’m not her
I’m not her I’m not her I’m not her I’m not her.
But they’ll still remember me as her.
It doesn’t matter what name I go by or how many times I change it. They’ll always remember. They’ll always remind me.
Worst of all she gave me her name.