Not from any petulant resentment,
Nor a lack of matriarchal love, but
It does not bother me much now
That mom died a decade ago.
Worry distracted her and kept
Her distant. She wanted me
To be something she wanted
To be, without regard for me.
Her love, no doubt, was sincere,
But was obligated, and entangled
With obligations in return with
A thousand hair-thin lines to untie.
Like rags, I wring my hands, like her;
And wish, like her, I was someone else.
(October 8, 2018)
honest to a point. brave only to my sibling’s response. I tried to remove the lies to myself.
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A brave poem.