Mother,
I know that you
cannot understand
my aversion to
becoming one as well.
You should be able to.
For it cannot be that
long ago that you
swore to your mother
who swore to your mother's mother.
We may have had
the very same fear,
because I have found
that there are strings around
my fingers that I must pull together.
I fear that heat runs
in our blood, as if Spanish moss
poisoned your father's line
with outbursts that may
become mine.
You said there's a gentleness
in me. But I cannot see,
as if anyone could, and
how much in liters or
ounces is enough?
There is a series
of events that you have not
considered. And you say I
am borrowing trouble, but
I fear that they will not converge.
I do not want to
disappoint. But I do not
understand how something
so small can endear to
some but not others.
I was endeared to you
by some magic that
surpasses my understanding,
my perspective, when I
could be called a nuisance.
And, mother, I fear
that the moment to
become one myself
will not come and, thus,
should not be expected.
Mother, you have
become part of my heart,
but I am young. Please,
don't expect me to
understand.
YOU ARE READING
Once, We Lived | Poetry Collection Completed
PoetryA collection of poetry from the high-school years of an semi-angsty teen with too much time on her hands. This is an exploration of the different facets of life and the perceptions of a teen of the 2010s with a knack for words. Warning: contains con...
