A Final Word, Mother

I was born from your womb, held soft and warm,

In your arms through tempest and storm.

I once thought love was a thing that would stay,

But I’ve learned, in time, that it drifts away.

Your voice was my shelter, your touch was my guide,

Yet somehow, it faded—forgotten inside.

I reached for your heart, but it stayed out of view,

A shadow, a ghost of the mother I knew.

Did I not bleed enough to be seen?

Did my pain not echo in spaces between?

I begged in my anguish, I screamed in my mind,

But love should be given—not something to find.

So here is the truth, though it cuts through my chest,

I’m laying this longing, this ache, to rest.

No more reaching for hands that let go,

No more calling a home that won’t know.

I wish you the peace you never gave me,

And I’ll find my own where your love couldn’t be.

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