she spends life on bruised knuckles and screaming
sewing again and again despite the many times that the shirt tears
and
she can hold her heart in her hands and lose herself in love
and give so much
and lose so much
yet she doesn't ask for more
she may have
been spat on
kicked and bloodied
yet she crawls out of the mess
alive,
vibrant,
and
forgiving.
I do not understand how she is able to
care for a person who
has pushed her further under
even when she was already drowning
I don't understand how
she can see
light and future
in a
stupid,
clumsy,
arrogant,
and
disgusting
daughter
such as I.
she hasn't flinched
a day in her life
even when she is
standing on
sharp splinters
beneath her feet
all the time,
and treading on thin ice.
she does not
look away
even when
the screaming gets too close and too much and too loud
I feel my red hot pain
and I know she does, too
yet she falls in a silent agony, lips muted, fists unclenched, unspoken grace dancing on her head.
watch her laugh
as she's being eaten alive.
while I grit my teeth and
break apart
when someone touches me.
my mother
may have spent
life
on bruised knuckles and screaming
but she has long learnt to cover the blue-black,
stuff up her ears,
wipe her tears,
and stand up again.
YOU ARE READING
Wanderers
Poetry" She was written poetry While He was just a draft Combined together They couldn't have made art For one didn't rhyme with the other And sadly Both weren't in sync together. " (This is the first official book I've posted on wattpad and intended to k...
