Poem: Mother, a tortured love song for you

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JW, unsplash.com

Whenever I reach out to her

she attacks with compliments

dipped in erudite daggers

poisoned with innocence.

She was always child-like

insecure and so am I too

ruled and ruined by ridicule.

We never left childhood

because ours was demolished

both of us miserable

intellectuals as children

caught in the voracious gauntlet.

We were geniuses

unacknowledged

by our volcanic mothers.

Whenever I obviously love her

she reopens the knife of my wound

and lies with amnesia.

She unbecomes my friend

deserts me again

at the airport arena

where she says

she’ll see me soon

and not that I’ll see her ever.

Her story is always bold,

told in first person perspective.

She’s a marathon survivor

she excelled when

she should’ve died

“you can’t focus on everyone else

and survive apocalypse,

first is best, last is lost”,

she says in my imagination.

“or you can be a hero

and die unafraid”,

I say to the air

because she’s not there

arging with no one but myself.

I’m tired of surviving

I want to live

or die conscious

that everything’s a try

win or fail and dive

change the mystery

reinvent history,

no one knows

the end of the surprise.

I love her more

than I can surmise

a thousand sighs

embalm the root,

but she wants proof

that I disdain her

so I refrain

from crowning her golden,

brainiac scepter wise.

A kind sadness rises sometimes,

I’m indebted to her madness

and for my electroshocked brain

and the rare tear stains it contains

at least a jewel of an ocean’s swallow.

Whenever I exiled myself away

for my own perfect protection,

Mother chased me through streets

with great realized affection.

I threw money ghosts at her

to make her to leave

but she wouldn’t

she rooted her trails underneath.

It’s when I care about myself

first, not last,

that’s when she listens

and exclaims me her

glinting

glamorous

diamond girl,

finally proud

in glimpses of glory

when I walk away.

My orphan pen remembers

something about distance

and indifference

aloofness seems to inspire her

to admire me from afar.

Probably she’s a lover

from another lifetime ago.

Funny crazy serious foe,

secret nemesis woe,

our star crossed scars

entwine together.

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