Mother

Mom please,

don’t look at me like that

I swear I tried my best,

but I don’t know

what makes you happy.

I just want to see your smile,

the one I rarely get to see.

I’m getting older and I see

my reflection in your eyes,

how I wither and fade.

I feel your hate but tell me,

Why is it my fault?

I’m scared of going home,

sitting at the table

and sharing a meal with you.

I look at my plate,

my fork, my hands,

and while we say Grace,

I pray this time I’m able

to chew more silently,

so you don’t get upset.

My room is my safe space,

but every now and then you come in.

And when you leave,

I can barely see you.

The tears blur my sight.

Times like these make me

wish someone would hug me.

But I don’t deserve it.

You’ve taught me well.

I wonder sometimes

if you ever hear me cry at night.

I also try to keep it down,

I know you cherish your sleep.

I still remember that day I had a fever,

and you stared at me

when I asked if you could

help me feel better.

You walked away.

I don’t blame you,

I’m full of mistakes.

Tell me mom, if I died,

Would that set you free?

Would that make you smile

like you once did?

I don’t want to be here either,

but I guess I’m scared to go.

I’m sorry for not

making it easier for you.

Mom, tell me,

What is the meaning of home?

I feel like I have it mixed up.

I’ve asked my friends

and they say home is where

the ones who love you are.

But that doesn’t sound right.

I know because

you’re my home.

Why do I shake

when I hear that word?

I feel it slicing my throat

every time I say it.

Is it another one of my childish dreams

I never seem to be able to get rid of?

The ones that make you angry

when I say them out loud.

You know, when I

see myself in the mirror,

I remember your face.

I try to imitate your expression,

the disgust and horror.

The feeling is no issue,

it comes naturally now,

I just can’t seem to get

the right amount of hatred

to show in my eyes.

But I’m learning.

Are you proud?

I’ve been writing down stories,

so you don’t have to listen to them.

They are not good,

but have potential, I think.

Only I have found that

I’m unable to write if

I don’t feel sad.

My memories of you

are a great help in those cases,

so thank you for

keeping me busy.

I love you mom,

I’m home when I’m with you.

But I hope that when I grow up

and finally leave your side,

I never find a home.

Maybe then,

we will both be able to smile.