Chlorine-soaked weeps leak down the peach of her face
as she stared at her reflection in the looking glass
As she brushed her hair she remembered the old days
When Mama used to call her a "monster" before her pass
Behind her swathed skin lie bleeding wounds left by a mother
Electric blue bruises from a favoured brother
The source of her anxiety; the reason for her insecurity
Countless frowns from a reminded inferiority
Mama wouldn't talk to her
No, not unless she did something that pleased her
"What is wrong with that child?" Mama asked
She was exhausted from crying over her failed braids
and imperfect crochetings and messy paintings
But nothing she did ever lived up to Mama's expectations
"No, nothing is wrong with this child!"
She raised her voice, gaining panicked looks from those in the room
Mama looked scared, horrified, fragile, for once
Maybe Mama would talk to her if she was constantly exhaling fumes
She did talk to her though
Not to give loving speeches
but to give merciless warnings
But at least she spoke to her
That was the day she learnt
to be feared was better than to be loved
That was how she grew up
to be a broken daughter
ČTEŠ
honeysuckle evenings.
Poeziea short collection of scattered imagination verbalised into words. a love story in different parts. ©️ all poems belong to me. - cover: honeysuckle illustration from vectorstock - i do not own any of the pictures in this book. HIGHEST RANKS ...
