Inherited Apology

My mother regretted the way I was made,

she tried to love me with a measured grace,

but I always saw the shadow of what she weighed.

I was a story she never meant to cascade,

a bruise turned child, a wound turned face,

my mother regretted the way I was made.

She gave my brother warmth, unafraid,

love without history, clean in its place,

but I always saw the shadow of what she weighed.

Her eyes confessed what her mouth forbade,

that I was birth born out of disgrace and rage,

my mother regretted the way I was made.

She never struck me, never displayed

the rage that carved me into space,

but I always saw the shadow of what she weighed.

I lived as evidence, silently betrayed,

trying to survive a truth I didn’t chase:

my mother regretted the way I was made,

and I always saw the shadow of what she weighed.