Skin Deep

I sheered the black sheep,
That wool itched so, anyway.
It weighed me down in the heat of your indifference.
Woven cloak of your shame.
Your shame,
My other name.
Awarded to me like a trophy,
By you, my referee
How dare I not do as you did,
Unpresentable me.
Not draped upon the arm of a rich man,
Not sipping from a golden shoe.
Pride is a subtle thing,
A fragile wing on a tiny creature.
And subjectivity forgotten,
In the law of your land.
The tragedy of funerals had,
with empty graves.
Burying the dead,
while they still walk and talk,
But not to me.
And what beauty I inherited from you,
You, who bore me here.
I can only show
In pictures
and a looking glass.
Faded memories
And broken dreams.

The Good Mother

You lay upon me,

so small and heavy,

as I shook with the strain

of your shimmering arrival.

Tenderly, I held onto you,

crushed by the weight of

my duty,

awed by the power of my love

for you,

this delicate creature,

a part of my body,

yet separate,

my child hand huge

in your miniature grasp.

Together, we forged new discovery.

Each of us traversing terrain,

foreign,

I sheltered you from monsters and villains,

fought them off,

or tried to,

enraptured by your

blossoming mind,

ravenous curiosity,

enduring pursuit of

the next adventure.

My love a cavern,

so deep and loyal,

I could get lost in it,

reminding myself I

had to let go,

to not strangle the flower,

to not cage the bird,

yet how could I know,

that with my love freely given,

you would cast me off,

like so many spurned belongings,

boxes of things

left behind

as you hopped from place to place,

me,

who smiled as you tasted your

first fruit,

your face alight with wonder,

who hugged herself,

arms tightly wound,

as you were carted away

for the first day of school.

Discarded,

rendered mute,

by the coldness

of your indifference.

You buried me

in a grave

of your Self.