Your heart
echoes the graveyards in your mother's mind-
echoes the graveyards in your mother's mind-
A constant megaphone to silence
in the beat of a storm.
It yells DOUBT!
DON'T. TRUST.
Learn to PUNISH YOURSELF.
They, too, will eventually leave.
See you post-curtain as you really are,
All sparkle and spit,
Soil ever under your fingernails.
So you make yourself (DOUBT)
remember lonely late nights,
The way her wine (DON'T)
was reason,
the darkness drinking up the light.
You (PUNISH)
plant flowers in your high school hands,
use your tears for watering.
Your mother is a sad charadist.
A broken magician.
Your mother the thin tire tread in threatening conditions.
But don't try and wish your mother
out of you.
It is in cradling a creature it learns
not to bite.
To understand the empty in its eyes.
And when you argue,
Trying both to love her, and save yourself,
And you only hear DOUBT.
DON'T.
PUNISH.
Know you must eventually leave her.
And stop searching in her cemeteries of grief
For peace.
