I grew up cold and blamed it on the shadow of my older sisters. Not because I am the youngest or smallest in the family, but because I felt a sense of not belonging. I wondered if I were an alien creature being studied on a planet of people who only resembled me in appearance, but the similarities ended there. My mother seemed to favor my sisters, with their baby pictures hung large on the wall of her bedroom where mine was forgotten on some far forgotten to-do list. I remember such feral anxiety at the thought of losing my mother still. I grew older and bitter, but still held that deep seeded need for security, attention, and affection. Even if I did not get exactly what I craved, I knew I should never wander far from my mother. She may not be the warm embrace of a homemade chocolate chip cookie, but she will always tide me over. I met a man and took a leap of faith on him and a thing called love, which helped me draw boundaries and take a step away from my family of origin. There was so much to learn about life and my sense of self. I value different things and support different politics. And then the day came that I dreamed of my entire life. 8.5 pounds of nothin' brought my life to a screeching halt. I have birth to human perfection. His hair was thick and dark and his skin a rich olive red. "Whose baby is this?" I wondered. I expected a pale bald or blonde baby that me resembled myself. I couldn't have been more prepared for motherhood and yet I was not prepared at all. The love, the ecstacy of the new baby smell, and the sheer terror at realizing I am responsible for this life and its every need. My child IS my love. I need to feed him when he cues, but first to learn his cues constantly varying. The long nights, the cry-inducing panic, and the distrust of my mother-in-law that made me reject assistance. Being a mother is horrific in the greatest way. It is living with the best peace of your soul split from your human form. Suddenly, I get it. I don't love it, but I get it. My mom was all but abandoned by my father for most of my childhood. She wasn't purposefully neglectful, she was spread thin. My older sisters were provided opportunities that I was not because there were not enough resources to go around. Instead of evenly distributing what my mom could, she tried to do it all, and all for my sisters prevented any for me. It wasn't intentional, and I never complained. I was so resigned to being hated and unwanted that I never dared to ask why I was being left out, why I was not loveable, why I didn't matter. I didn't know I could speak my truth until I met my husband, who said things out loud that shouldn't have been spoken at all. I grew into myself more away from my mother. I lost some love only to find it in my own son. My relationship with mom isn't as close as my sisters' seems to be, but my appreciation for all that she could spare has been tremendous. Pieces of me that shattered under the pressure of being less than have found their way to building something new. I am reborn after having given birth. My child will know he is wanted and loved in the ways I still yearn to feel. I will take charge of my relationships and my life as a whole. I am a mother now, and mothers have to build their children's world from the bottom up while the weight of the world presses harder and harder. Being a mom is thankless and all-consuming, but it is the closest thing to being a God there is. Creating life is the easy part, keeping the child alive is the never- ending challenge. We're all doing the best we can, so ask your mother the hard questions, love others the way you yearn to be loved, and thank your mom for keeping you alive!

The sexiest thing a man can be is attentive. Nothing causes a drought quite like a man with eyes glossing over in the middle of your sentence. Feeling seen and heard leads to the desire to be touched and tasted. Foreplay should always begin fully clothed, feet apart, hours in advance. Lock your eyes into mine, smile when I share my triumphs, worry when I share my doubts. Having presence in my existence allows me the safety to shed off the days armor and allow myself the vulnerability I need to let myself go. Follow the cues of my body I don't even know I am sharing. Come closer, embrace me, kiss me gently, caress my shoulders. Allow me to melt into your arms with dribbling clumsiness. Build up the tension of desire while disarming in me the tension of my responsibilities. Do this delicate dance with me repeatedly until you are my salvation. I want my mouth to start watering as soon as I see you, but I cannot get there alone. All human bonds must be grown, and like anything you grow, I need to be nourished and given my time in the sunlight. Allow me to bloom for you and bask in the heady scent of lust I feel only for you.

As soon as the bubble of dread bursts, and the bad news is shared, it sinks into my chest like a parasite with a ring of fangs for teeth. Whatever the tragedy, it belongs to anyone but me. And yet it consumes me, feeds from my energy as if the perpetrator grows stronger from affecting the world with their depravity. I beg myself to look away, shield my mind from the despair of a stranger. Something sinister then convinces me that to shut it out is to invalidate their pain. Somehow knowing and feeling their anguish may somehow relieve them from it for only a moment. Who would I be to deny the damned from a moment of peace? But of course they continue to suffer, and I continue to flood my own brain with images of what had occurred as if I were a first- hand witness. I wonder, I fear, I endure thoughts like a runaway train headed for my inner child tied to the tracks. Vulnerable and pure, the shock of a bad event alive elsewhere in the universe shatters me and violates my inner world. I ruminate on the facts, chewing and considering until I feel so worthless that I cannot help. I feel so weak and pathetic that it brings me panic to consider my feelings when it isn't about me. It has nothing to do with me. I try to change the topic of my inner monologue, to will control over my conscious existence. My subconscious always drawing me back into the abyss. The conflicting nature of blissful ignorance and being aware of the world. I don't wish to set my head in the sand, but I wish my thoughts would break from misery and focus on the hope.

I have given it to you

All that I can

To show you the way

Hand in my hand

I twisted myself

Around the start of you

It broke, I didn't break

You wholed me like glue

My strength and my weakness

You are my heart

The world I will give you

Even when we're apart

Watching you thrive

Wheels turning, eyes clear

It's all I could hope

The absence would be fear

When you grow old

I will grow older, too

You'll be what I hope for

Nothing else for me to do

Strength, wisdom, poise

Treasure in your chest

All the best things

I know you possess

From the day that I met you

You fit me like a glove

I am proud to have birthed you

You are my love

The hue of calm

Peace within

A deliberate balm

A dancing whim

A cold hard truth

Slithering eel

Cold clamy smooth

Fascinating feel

Rough as frozen stone

And soft as mist twilight

Calm as the sweetest tone

Dancing into midnight

A best friend forever

Deep summer pool

Thinking something

Feeling deeply cool

A hug after a cry

A whisper and laugh

The favorite sweater you buy

Then have to bring back

Blue is the way of being

Fresh, loving, and breezy

There so more to it than seeing

Not what makes you uneasy

Fear is an un-motivator

An unkind instigator

Of the moon

A dark circumvented crator

Anxiety is a burden

Sharp and unknown

It prevents you from the way

You should have grown

No FOMO within

Avoidant to all harm

Where some seek adventure

Others see harm

Believe in the worst

Watch it come true

Shield yourself from it

Shudder and bubble burst

Watch skin break out in hives

Hyperventilating - no breath

Stay away

Don't live your lives

I learned about life from my family. My father sucked the air from any room he walked into. His eyes pierced any morsel of joy and he consumed it with loud envy. My mother spun six plates on five sticks without the bandwidth to take on more. There was no teamwork between the two and no love lost when they were through. I zigged and zagged to find my place, never succeeding. And I cried alone with no one to call for.

And then I met a man. He was mature and hard to please. So I didn't try to please him, and I in fact didn't hide anything from him. I was 18, and he was 20, and now that seems very funny, but he seemed so much older and so much wiser. He wasn't afraid of my honesty or the truth of my broken parts. In fact, he fell in love with me and nearly scared me off with his acceptance.

We spend every day together. He fills the room he walks into with light and lots of noise. When I have five plates and five sticks, he will take the one I'm focusing on and try to spin it himself. Even though I did not need or want the help. And our child is the center of our world. He will be what and who he wants and we will sit with him wherever he needs his place to be.

When she was little, she tried to tame the wind. Admiring the way the trees bowed and waved in the breeze. Upon silent streets, cheers erupted as an invisible presence passed through. Transparent, but not unnoticed. It could be calm and gentle, or fierce and howling through the chimney. She wanted nothing more than to possess that power; to exist without being forgotten and heard when she needed to speak.

As she grew, she learned to feeling of wind on her skin as freedom. The dark night cloaking innocent mischief as she ran out in secret with friends. The wind kissing her cheeks and blowing by with passing cars as they hid. The parting of still air as she whipped through on roller skates, dancing along with the beating bass under the disco ball. Creating wind, at last, where there previously had been none.

Once grown, she breathed calmly as the wind rushed the shore. She admired the water obey each gust as it leapt into somersaults on the beach. The sails on far-out boats being given mighty pushes to their destination from the merciful and powerful force of nature. Her inner child delighted by kites in the hands of small children running up an down the wall of the ocean. She wondered if they, too, could see the wind the way she did.

Youth is a drug only craved once the bar closes and all of your friends returned to their separate homes. The thrill you had walking from the car into the building proudly and in short shorts with a skin tight top is replaced with exhaustion and embarrassment for having the sweat chill your body to its core causing you to hunch over yourself to preserve warmth. There is something to be said about the rush of dancing, knowing all eyes were on you, and knowing that you were a spectacle to behold. Bodies of strangers pressed against each other in passing. Towards the middle of the room you stayed so the mesmerizing lights of the disco ball can blind you to the seedy elements cleaving to darkened outer edges. You could kiss a stranger, if you want to, and then move on to another dance partner.

Suddenly life pulls you away. There is no plan of action, no warning, no lack of desire for the old haunt. The monotony sets in and settles into your suffering joints. Finding a friend to re-liven the moment you truly felt powerful becomes as hard as finding the right shape wear to pull in your midsection to fit into your old skin. Once you return to the scene of your own historic envy, you realize that the crowd no longer parts to welcome you in. Your body is rigid and no longer fluid with the waves of music, and your companions insist on conversing instead of singing along. The feeling sinks in and you realize that you've outgrown a pass-time that once gave you a purpose. You've aged while the building has echoed without fading. The past is within reach but too slippery to fully grasp onto.

You've become pushed to the side of the room where the crowd is volitile and crude. The bartender ignores your waving hand and gesture of promise to pay. Instead they focus on the fresh meat to properly marinate with the proper amount of beer and salt. The memories taste like sweet and sour apple shooters and this new reality feels the floor sticking to the sole of your shoes as you squeak around to the other side of the bar. What's worse is a trip to the bathroom rings the bell in your head, raising all the alarms that you are old. Not ancient but unwilling to fight with a stall door which refuses to latch.

The party is over once two drinks send you spinning down the toilet for more than five minutes. The betrayal of time sits bitter on your tongue as you recount the last time that you felt whole and brave. Must life now be quiet and safe from the landmines you sashayed in lucky avoidance of before? You have no choice now but to call a cab, then taking the three showers necessary to wash the shame, the embarrassment, and the mourning out of your hair.

You didn't know. When the last time is the last time, how could you know? The memories play in your head like a home movie. The highlights, the pride dipped bravery-savory moments provided by the ignorance of youth. It all used to melt the ice of obligation from your veins. Letting go feels like tying a piece of your soul to a balloon and wondering if the balloon might pop and bring it back to you one day. This moment is a fork in the path of life. You can choose to jones for the drug you could no longer afford or you can lunge forward in an attempt to find a passion for breathing in the frosty air of morning, covered head to toe, and become the witness of your own greatness. Had you sewed your wild oats before, you can now eat up the oatmeal with little fear for having missed out.

As the time flew by, the plastic never ceased to feel broken. Shards scattered across the floor of memories and dictated a false sense of reality. A hope, a promise, and a wish fulfilled with such rare ease as splitting a knife through butter. Yet, there was no satisfaction. No nauseating burst of thrill or clarity of mind for the future. There was only duty and a fog that lifted one foot after the other and tap danced forward in time. Friends reached out with gentle pats and family eagerly tried on their new wares. The only shred of life that heaved through the wall of smoke was a queer panicked feeling of free falling that was purposely displaced with ignorant bliss.

The numbness persisted passed the point of no return. With each beat of a fresh heart came a radiant slash of pain that shook each atom to it's core. Again, again, again. The agony sewed shut the lip's scream for silence. Each pulse a reminder that there was no option of flight, only fight. Hours upon hours elapsed where the months of hope, betrayal, ecstacy, doom, and boredom, which had all been withheld, finally exploded in a moment. The twisting, churning presence of the future emerged, followed by a sudden release. Relief. A burden lifted. The numbness, the absence of life, it all disapated.

Cries; tears of joy shrieked out. The freshness of breath drawn deeply into the lungs felt sweet again. The taste of warm meals superseded the fulfillment for energy once more. Sleep, such precious sleep, could be found in the most precarious of places. The isolation among a million faces faded into one being whose smile created a home. The numbness, the lack of direction or hope or danger evaporated in the sweat of labor. All multiverses intertwined and the birth of the Sun became the center of my universe.