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a non-poem poem about my mother
1 month ago · · Poetry,
there is a poem somewhere in this scene
in my sanctuary room where i sleep.
i walked in, finally going to bed long after my parents fell asleep and felt my chest
because i could see the soft glow of lights from the hallway before i even entered. my string lights are all turned on, on the fade setting just how i like them, and my lumipet is turned on and slowly shifting between colors.
my mother did this for me. just as she does every night.
just as she did tonight, despite us barely talking all day.
even though we had a big argument yesterday, screaming back and forth, even though i stormed out of the house after dark, even though my mother has been looking at me like i'm a stranger, even though we avoided each other the whole day today and were cold to each other,
she still did this for me
just as she does every night.
because despite the fury with which we attacked each other
she loves me.
i love her.
we love each other. in ways that are so different yet so similar.
there is a brick wall between us that both of us are building
and the strong love we have for each other is getting trapped on our own sides
and when love is left to ferment
it does just that
and for us it is not like wine and cheese
it is like bread.
love turns to resentment and you begin to ask "why"
as in "why are you like this"
why why why, always about the past
about things that are done and gone
i cannot change the fact that i am like this in this moment.
i cannot change how i was in the past.
i cannot change what i did before and i cannot fix what made me how i am today.
you cannot change the fact that you are like this in this moment.
you cannot change how you were in the past.
you cannot change what you did before and you cannot fix what made you how you are today.
but not with this wall.
not with this moldy bread. we are stuck in puddles of rotting love.
our love passing between us two cleans the waters but there is nothing passing right now, it is just building up on our own sides and adding more and more and more and more to the puddles and they grow and grow and it gets worse worse and
if i was a poet
i would write a poem about this scene i am in
where my mother still turned on all my lights for me
despite not saying goodnight to me
but i am not a poet
so instead i'm writing this
i don't think it counts as a poem but it's definitely not prose
its confused and muddled
whatever it is it shows my love for my mother. i love her, that is the reason i am awake at 2:52 am writing whatever this is about us and it will be later before i am done
i love her and my love is rotting but
the lights glowing across the walls and ceiling and my skin
show that the wall is not done
it is unfinished, it is short and rough and theres gaps in it where love flows through
maybe there is hope for us yet that it will turn back into a river