my deepest condolences

January 1, 2018

i sit down in the ninety degree heat,

my thick thighs spread,

sticking to the cloth of my cargo shorts,

my hair in a crown of curls,

miniature waterfalls flowing down

from my scalp from the summer sun.

with my journal, i write in my signature rushed penmanship,

"dear, mother, i am not the daughter you wanted."

i am not poised, i am not proper, i am not perfect.

i am rough. i am bold. i am in your face.

"i am sorry, mother, that i am rowdy,

that i am loud, that i am awkward.

you should be proud, mother,

i am beautiful, i am smart, i am cunning."

i am sorry i come home when the stray cats sleep

and that i stink of weed and disappointment,

that i enjoy wooing every daddy's little princess,

that i don't look out when i skate in the street.

i am sorry i cannot be the daughter you prayed

long and hard every night for thirty-some weeks

to your god before you rested your head.

my deepest condolences for the daughter you

birthed from dreams and idealism.

she is dead.

instead, i am me.

Something wrong with this poem?

Replies are closed for this poem.

See what makes your poem unique — its voice, energy, themes, and the literary traditions it draws from.

Comments (0)

No comments yet. Be the first to share your thoughts.