From the moment I could understand,
walk with both hands held behind my back,
you’ve reminded me of the thread
I was born upon,
as if you still hold the scissors,
as if you sharpen the blades
because I know the desire is there,
to forget, to let me go to the ocean,
and with a body disappearing beneath waves
your life would be returned, a past;
you could become everything
I never allowed, my child form an obstacle,
a deviation and mistake,
an ever present reminder of all
you do not have.
And now kindness doesn’t have a home,
doesn’t know you anymore,
our love, a ship irretrievable in a glass bottle.
I struggle to believe someone will find us
and smash us free.
We are too beautiful in statuary.
In the pretend we have become —
mother, I know how much it hurt
to have me, bed sheets soaked in blood,
scar tissue puckered and stretched.
But my kindness is not a wishing well.
I am a river. I must move on, forward,
and I cannot, I cannot be kind
when your love is a condition,
an expectation I will always fail.
I have found the scissors.
I have sharpened the blades.
