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Creative storyteller with passion for art & connection. Portland, Oregon.

mom

She’s an abstract idea,

far from the nurturing or warm ideal of a first home;

a garden without a gardener.

her cruelty echoes,

screaming anxious obscenities in my mind, making me question my own motherhood.

I fear self reflection and the inevitable discovery of the same seed,

left unchecked,

taking over the entire emotional ecosystem within,

repeating the history she herself repeated.

 

but I don’t want my children to fear me,

and I don’t want to hate myself.

And denial of our similarities only paves the way into becoming everything I despise, everything I feared as a child.

 

So I force myself to look,

to see the ugliness of the weeds that have taken over and pilfered resources from the parts of me I wish would grow, and

I force myself to dig, extracting them by the root,

lovingly coaxing them to release their grip,

before setting them aside for good.



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