Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

The Joys Of Motherhood

I hold my daughters in my hands,

cold and full of trauma,

like their mother,

a messy scrawl that tries to be a signature on their faces,

in case one day I am worth something,

and they are too.

I just hold them,

eyes closed,

trying not to feel the blood dripping from the worn pages,

the long lists of the dead,

just my name,

repeated again and again,

because I never let my daughters take anybody else.

My daughters are vampires.

Hungry but well meaning,

sinking fangs into my soul,

as I lay still,

solemn and accepting.

This is the price for peace,

I guess?

I let my demons drink,

until I am pale and faded,

crying on a counsellor’s couch,

as the sun rises.

My daughters are my counsellors,

unqualified but well meaning,

just listening and drinking,

until I die,

and then we start again.

I am alive again,

because I have to be,

because people need me to be.

I think,

sometimes,

I want to be.

I tell my daughters bedtime stories,

about the little things that make my life worthwhile.

That little spot in my day when he thinks of me and does something about it has been my favourite for a while,

and they LOVE that story,

crowding around me,

with excited eyes,

hungry stares.

I kiss my madness goodnight every morning,

knowing that she will not sleep,

but that we must both pretend,

for as long as we can.

She is hungry but well meaning too.

Everyone is hungry but well meaning.

I am covered in bite marks.

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