It Stings.

Wed, 11/01/2017 - 09:22 -- rshaose

My Mother, is someone who...

Wouldn't be the person you would run to.

...Most of the time.

But my Father is.

My Mother, is someone who likes to tell you you're perfect the way you are,

Abnormalities and all,

But then would take it back, like it was a joke.

"Fooled you!"

My Father would pick up the broken pieces,

...After she would take the bat to the vase.

I was never perfect in my Mother's eyes.

It took me five years to understand this fact.

"Hey, maybe Mom would like it if you made dinner,

cleaned up the house, and stayed as quiet as a church mouse."

But no, Mom wanted to scream, and shout,

And bang every pot and pan she could get her thin, worn hands on.

Throw out the food made that afternoon like it was weeks old.

Make sure every paper organized of the binder that held my schoolwork,

Was on the floor around my feet,

Was certain, I would make this mess again, because she could see it in her dreams.

A woman of such strength, usually used it for good,

But a woman, of also such weakness,

Couldn't understand that her strength was just as important to others.

My Father saw the mess she made,

Heard the pots and pans break on that last blow, coming together. 

My Father would patiently outside, angrily inside, pick up my papers and tell me to go.

My Mother would scream and shout, asking who made the mess,

Me, or my Brother?

Me or my Father? Who stood

In the mess of papers and glass,

That she had decidedly made,

Pushed onto someone else, and already forgot about.

I moved out, six weeks ago,

Out of the house we had helped decide on five years ago.

It seemed to look at me with its somber eyes as I left,

In the car with my belongings in the back.

This, was when I knew I saw free.

This poem is about: 
Me
My family

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