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The Poem My Mother Would Cry Reading
Snow dances across the planes of your face,
And for another instant or two,
I’m so fucking jealous.
How can the seasons,
Who barely know you,
Have the audacity,
And the permission,
To touch you unthinkingly,
Why are they good enough,
But I am just your daughter,
Too much,
Too much hug,
Too much tug,
Too much thoughtless caress.
Sometimes I wonder who is getting punished,
Are you?
Cursed to have a daughter who incessantly
Had to be touching, holding, loving on you.
Or am I the one who is getting the short end of the stick,
The girl who needed constant physical reassurance she was real,
That she was loved, that she wouldn’t fly off into space,
And a mother who hates physical touch.
Hugz
They don't get a vote. Don't like it, grimace and bear. I agree about the physical abuse part, makes ppl withdrawn - slc