ballads of heartbreak

water of the womb

Your mother is a deeply scarred woman.
She has suffered so much in her life and she continues to move forward.
Your mother cannot hear nor see,
She worries the others may cast her aside due to the color of her skin,
She hates herself,
As her mother had instilled the self hatred in her and her mother before her.
Infact, your grandmother is also a deeply scarred woman,
Abused, small and frail, yet she remains independent.
You seek love.
You've been looking for love your entire life,
as your mother may love you, but she hates herself and wants you to do the same.
So you've sought love in the darkest and dreariest places.
You seek love from those who do not know how to give it.
And it aches.
It aches to feel as if you will constantly be seeking and searching for something unobtainable.
It hurts to feel unlovable,
To feel you give your all into everything you love and to receive the minimum in return. 
You've slaved and sobbed over your art, dreaming of making something beautiful and worthy of love.
You are screaming at a blank wall waiting for a response.
There are no responses.
You are alone.
Perhaps in another lifetime, one in which things were different, you'd have an answer.
Perhaps you'd be able to justify the way you felt without resorting to convoluted words in hidden journals.
Perhaps you could make something people loved.
Then you'd be loved.
You could be your mother's daughter.
And she her mother's daughter.
And the blood would run thick and red,
Red full of love, a beautiful shade of crimson that reminded the world of  maple leaves in autumn.
You'd lay among those leaves and watch the world spin by, making stories, and art, and singing songs that everyone knew the words to.
This is in another world though.
In this world you are deeply traumatized, like your mother and her mother.
Every hurtful word spoken to you cuts like a knife.
It wounds you, in a sense, leaving you scarred and waiting for it to fade.
There are no doctors who may heal you, as they all believe the scar isn't there.
And your mother, who very well sees the scar, refuses to acknowledge it. She believes it can disappear of its own volition.
She speaks these words because she's experienced them, but who is to say that she's have?
You are not your mother.
You have never been your mother and you never will be.
You may look like her, you may sound like her, but you are not her.
She is still waiting for her scars to fade, as is her mother.
Your wounds are fresh.