I cried once,
on Christmas Day,
alone in the kitchen,
because you said that you were proud of me,
and I was overwhelmed,
uncertain if I deserved adoration.
Being proud of me must have been a long road.
I know that I trouble you,
without ever meaning to.
I used to see myself as an iceberg,
bound to break you,
dragging you down to my glacial despair,
but something you were bound to,
I think I’ve melted,
and I’m not sure what I am now.
Christmas is coming,
I think I’m due another cry,
it’s been a rough year,
I haven’t seen you since February.
I met a nice man, mother.
I think you’ll like him,
so you have to promise that we’ll meet again,
at some point,
but fate doesn’t factor in my wants and needs,
when it throws me into situations.
Don’t you think I’ve lived through enough?
The planes that fell,
the markets that followed,
the fear that sank into the streets,
making them mean and intimidating.
I feel like I was young so long ago,
with each new event making it easier to forget,
when I was with you,
happy and whole,
before the twenty four hour news cycle,
and the cycling memories of my own personal hell.
You were right about the very first one, mother.
It’s so long ago,
that sometimes I forget,
except on the thirty first of December,
when I cry all night,
trying to stop myself from going back in time.
My skin was a canvas,
and his art was not made to be understood.
He was so full of rage,
his brushes were vile and violent,
but I stayed because I was desperate to be loved.
Something inside of me is broken, mother,
but it cannot be fixed,
so I just hope for kindness from a cruel world,
and try to survive.
This one is nice, mother.
He kisses me,
as if I am a beautiful girl,
and not as if I am a hole for him to enjoy.
I haven’t touched a drink in months,
and I haven’t lied about it in minutes,
but you don’t need to worry,
because I only drink with my nice man,
and he’s nice,
so I won’t get up to any mischief,
or end up in places I shouldn’t.
He makes me go to bed at a sensible time,
and I wake up waiting for him to kiss me,
as if I am a beautiful girl.
He always does.
You told me that I deserved to be happy,
and I think that I am,
I am locked in the house,
not by love,
but by law.
I’m fine on Saturdays,
fucked up on Sundays,
sinking into the bleak routine of getting by on Monday Morning,
and I wonder,
if you find yourself frustrated,
that I was born,
but ended up such a mess?
I love you, mother.
I want to cry again.
Please make me cry.