i remember when
you first told me about her.
how you were still talking to her
even though i said not to.
you kept saying it wasn't anything
and that is what told me it was.
my mother broke a wine glass
that night.
she walked in on me crying
in my room and she knew,
so long before i did,
what you were.
she set the wine glass down
on my nightstand too hard,
and the stem shattered.
maybe a while ago,
i would have written something
comparing that to my heart,
or my self worth,
or my mental health.
but today, i don't jump on
the opportunity to make just anything
into a metaphor anymore.
it's not a metaphor, anyway.
my mother broke a wine glass
because she saw what it was
and the thought of her daughter
trapped inside of that cage
was too much for her.
my mother broke a wine glass
because of you.
and i just don't think
there's anything poetic
in that.
-c.h.
~
tell me what you think of the collection so far!
YOU ARE READING
how the words come
Poetry"this is the poetry that has come from finally realizing it is okay to be okay but also not okay at the same time." ~ 'how the words come' tells the story of overcoming the aftermath of an emotionally abusive relationship. the book is separated into...
