ROOTS.

A part of me feels guilty.

 

Guilty, that the woman who helped bring me into this world
is now gone, and the only thing running through my mind
is finally.

 

A part of me feels relieved.

 

Relieved, that there is at least once place
where she will no longer haunt me;
 

the woman who is my mother,
but was never a mother to me.

 

My reality is safe.
She will no longer appear before my eyes
except for in times of slumber.
Slumber, but never rest.
 

A part of me is terrified.

 

For my mother was selfish and cruel, and she learned
to be that way from her mother. A vicious cycle, where
you try to escape the hand you were dealt, yet unknowingly
throw yourself to its pyre.

 

Perhaps I should never have children of my own.
Perhaps the kindest thing to do, would be to spare them
Of that fate entirely.

 

In truth, I feel many things,
but I do not know how to feel.


All I know, is that my father,
whom my mother hated most of all,
now openly weeps at her wake.

 

The loathing was never reciprocated.

 

That my brother, whom was borne
with an affection only meant for her,
has no plans to attend.

 

My hands grip edge of the casket;

I’m wearing a simple black dress.

A dress I bought with my mother some years ago,

when we were attending the funeral of her mother.

 

A part of me wonders.

 

If my mother ever felt the same.

 

Comments

Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741