Cloth Mother // Wire Mother

I am eight, you tell me not to paint my nails red, lest I look like a slut.

I have long held the life philosophy that, when it comes to non-essential desires, people only want what they can’t have. But recently I have added a second life philosophy: no matter the relationship, no matter if she’s not in their life or not even alive, when faced with an unpleasant or unbearable situation that they are powerless to stop, people turn to their mother for comfort. There is some innate, hardwired desire within us all that still aches for a mother’s love, guidance, protection. Maybe I’m a genius, or maybe I just reinvented Harlow.

Of course, this philosophy came to me at 19, while I was black out drunk, crying on my bathroom floor and begging for my mom to fix it. So maybe I’m not a genius, maybe I’m just wasted.

(I have stood in my own living room, drunk, screaming that I wanted to go home.)

I am nine, you tell me not to sit with my legs spread, lest I look like a slut.

There is a saying, people raised in a burning house think the world is on fire. My house is not burning, neither is my world, but I can tell, in the little things, that you come from ash and embers, and sometimes I can still smell the smoke bleeding through, the streaks of charcoal that decorate the way you talk about your brother. You know, the one we aren’t allowed to ever meet because he’s a gay, schizophrenic, alcoholic somewhere in Florida. Be honest, do you think he’s even still alive?

At 16 I found myself lying on someone's grave, beneath a man five years older than me. You said a first time should be special, do you think a 21 year old from Tinder is special? When you look at me, do you see your daughter, or the brother you couldn’t save?

(I got a 100 dollar bill for Christmas and I spent it on weed and alcohol.)

I am 13, you tell me not to wear lip gloss, lest I look like a slut.

When I was in middle school, I was modifying a t-shirt up in my room. I didn’t feel like going all the way down to the basement to look for sewing pins and fabric chalk, so I marked the shirt with deodorant and pinned it with earrings. Once completed, I told you how clever I was. You looked me in the eye and told me “Oh, I see, you’re not clever, you’re just lazy.”

If I had a nickel for every time I said I hate you and you told me “you don’t hate me, I’m your mom” I would have somewhere between six nickels. That’s not a lot, I recognize. I learned to stop saying I hate you after I realized you would never believe me.

(I would sooner spill a confession to live television than to your face.)

I am 15, you tell me not to wear crop tops, lest I look like a slut.

My dad said he’s concerned about my obsessive desire to make a spectacle of myself. All I could do was sit and wonder where he got that idea from. I rarely make a spectacle of myself. It took a few days for the truth to occur to me: you think I constantly make a spectacle of myself because that is the only time you see me; if I’m not making a scene then I don’t exist to you.

I have always been too loud or too quiet, every adjustment is an over adjustment. I have always talked too much or too little. I have always been everything I am not supposed to be.

(You’re the reason I hate taking up space, yet am so desperate to do so.)

I am 19, you tell me not to get a shoulder tattoo, lest I look like a slut.

Mowing in the dark; ink on skin; nicotine; cash. The things you hate because of the fire.

The creaking of floorboards; being interrupted; my own opinions; being called sweetie. The things I hate because of the ashes.

(I tell everyone you’re a great person, but a mediocre mother.)