a letter to my mom (now that i’ve grown up)
I'm sorry, mom.
For all of the stupid things I do
that annoy you on a daily basis.
Biting my nails,
hugging you every five seconds,
talking your ear off;
I'm sorry.
And for the days when I feel like
no one loves me,
the days I doubt your heart;
I'm so sorry.
And I don't treat you badly on purpose,
I love you,
more than I show it.
I just have days when it feels like
the whole world is against me-
it's not your fault though.
If I'm having a bad day,
please don't assume it's your fault.
And if I don't make it as far in life
as you have,
it doesn't reflect on you-
I don't blame you for any of it.
Just know that I love you,
mom,
for everything you've sacrificed for me over the years,
and all the troubles you've gotten me out of.
I am eternally grateful.
Thank you.
Seasons of Motherhood
I can't title this as a letter, as a "Dear ____", as a painful series of sentences designed to make me reflect and feel pain. My children are cells that have not yet divided into fetuses, into little versions of myself, into generational trauma and sticky fingers that reach for an absentee mother.
I suppose this not-letter has to be abstract, because that's what my children are to me, what my relationships with my mother is - a once and future cloud that erupts into thunder when I'm asked, "Do you want children?"
There is nothing quite like dreams to keep me going, nothing quite like hope to inspire a future with a son or daughter.
Life is hard. It's a series of rejections, sickness, and bills to pay. It is a series of rock-bottoms, or maybe that's just what I've experienced.
Can I let my failures as a human being already cloud my perception of motherhood? Will my children suffer for having me as a mother, for watching me reach for something other than their love when I'm down and out, aching for a substance to heal me when family is right in front of me?
I would want more for my children. I want them to be happy, to experience life to the fullest. To hit rock bottom, and instead of bottoming out, to see it like the seasons. A spring of blossoms, rain that creates new life but does not wash away our lessons learned. A summer that does not scorch old terrain and make us want to obliterate pain, but makes generational trauma come out behind shadows; the sepia light reflecting off only what is there to be physically seen, and not just psychically felt.
I want more. I know there is life beyond pain, and I would want that for anyone, whether or not they share my DNA.
I am going to end this not-letter by saying that I am in love with life, but not in the same way a mother loves her child - in a fragmented way, in an autumn of sorrow, in a winter that lightly coats everything in snow and melts away to uncover the peace I so desperately crave for myself.
To Whom I May Concern
I am not a mother yet, not by a long shot. I shall be an amazing aunt long before I have my own children, however in the interim as I am, I would like to dedicate this to my child.
I am your mother. I am not good, no, but you are the best parts of me- within the cracks in my foundation you have seeked to nurture. Those cracks have long been filled by the brilliance I know you shall bring this world, my son or daughter. And I thought I was above crying- I do not cry for anyone but those who eat alone and animals and even then it is jaunty.
I will make a million mistakes before you become of age, and further several million when you're able to detest me for them. But I will make this world good for you- our world. I cannot ensure the planet, nor the many people good and bad that inhabit it, but inside you will have me, and your other parent, and your loving uncles and cousins and grandma and great aunt and... god, the list is endless, isn't it? You will be born into the world with the endless amounts of support I feel myself welling in thought at.
I will anger you, hurt you, and you will likely hate me and wish you had any other mother at that time. And I understand. We come from strife, don't we darling? But I'll be around for you, when there's a nick on your finger or you simply long to come home.
I am your mother, your confidante, yours solely. You are half my heart and all of my soul.
my grandfather at 103
randy romanian
born with a hard-on for life
the women who passed near
even now nursing home housed
suffered endured smiled laughed
at his roaming hands up their skirts
down budging begging bosom blubber
to be harassed sagging nipples sucked up
violets popping through warm spring earth
made to quiver between raspy puckered lips
blue veined forefinger probing prodding
gooey gummy grimy earthwormed flesh
to resurrect a feeling flutter flickers flow
wheelchair tires entangled causing alarm
a victimless crime really yet the FBI lacking
those posing existential threats to the globe
took him away
spoon in hand
a gulp away from slurping savoring
a bowl of celebratory fish head soup
cement charming
the sunset can be beautiful
the way the bike makes the world pass by - magical
captivation can grab you up and hold you tight
its not a forever captivation
not if the road ends, you tire, darkness falls
or potholes explode into the journey
all life is like this- something grabs you up and lifts you
until it does not
then you are just slammed to the ground with less time and more trust issues
skinned knees and bruised interest
cement charming
I've made a lot of noise on this website. Been here since 2018 or '19...? I can't remember. Let's go with '19 even if it may be '17 cos it feels like it might be right. What can I say? I want to be seen sometimes. When I scream out into the void, it's nice to imagine I am heard by someone. Sometimes, just as often, I don't want to be noticed at all. When I'm in the mood to share a bit, spill out, I come here. See if anything tickles my fancy. The challenges of this website have brought out some really real, really raw stuff from me. Reminded me of good and bad things. Bittersweet is the word I'd use cos that's what it tends to be. The website was there for me as my mind spiralled and when I left my old hell to a new, better university I'd like to call purgatory since it's in a more neutral plane of being. Writing helps me understand myself and I guess I'm tired of trying to make it pretty enough when I know for a fact this place gives you pretty free rein. I've written mostly sad things, sometimes genuinely good. My writing has gotten better. I'm able to explain my emotions rather well now. I entered this challenge cos I've been gone for a beat and honestly, seeing even more changes is something to adjust to. Yet I'm intrigued with what comes next. I tend to stick to what I'm familiar with so I'm not likely to look for another site any time soon... This will be a home for my random thoughts, memories and emotions for some unpredictable time to come.
10 to 1
I’m a compulsive writer lately, but I set one rule for myself on Prose: For every post you make, go read at least ten more.
Since I tend to average now about one to three posts a day (yeah, I’m slightly stressed/bored lately - go figure) that equals at least ten to thirty posts a day, roughly.
Because I think reading makes you a better writer, just like listening makes you a better speaker. I just have to set rules to help myself remember so I don’t fall into my own trap of blathering/typing on like an idiot.
I do not always like the posts I read; I only like things I actually like.
I also do not expect anyone to thank me for liking/reposting their posts, because I believe their post earned it.
But I don’t always thank everyone who likes/reposts my posts, for the simple reason that a) I don’t want to create an un-ending cycle of obligatory thanking comments b) I’d rather spend more time going through more posts. [insert credit to rlove327] Particularly the posts of someone who has taken the time to read mine. A notification that someone has liked my post feels more worthwhile to me, so if I can give someone else that honor I feel like that's better than just saying thanks.
That and I hate tagging, I always type too fast and make typos, then realize it and can’t go back and edit my damn comment/tags, then fume over how long it takes to tag things. I’m still not convinced there’s not a better way than tagging to get through online life, but I may just be too old/grumpy to accept the new ways.
history obliterates
imagine history in a paint-splattered apron, drawing up plans for the next decade. how does she get that vibrant red? perhaps she mixes crimson with a dash of purple [or maybe she pricks life's fingers and smears the blood into her timeline].
scrub-blue swathes of fabric wrap tearaway calendars and tie them with a bow. some say life is beautiful and i picture her dancing in meadows, foxgloves tucked behind her ear. however, i think i prefer death, lurking in the shadows, nature's equilizer. life draws out suffering, but death removes it with a merciful hand. i kiss my index finger and rub it against the doorframe, waiting. life hand-picks her privledged children and leaves the rest to play in the mud, while death sweeps them all up into her arms, caressing them before setting them free.
because death doesn't discriminate, but life sure does.