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Literature Text
Dear Mom,
Thank you for taking care of me
those eight months I spent
curled up in your womb,
slowly being knit together
and listening to your heartbeat.
I appreciate that time
you spent with me then
as much as I appreciate
the time you spend with me now.
But somehow I didn’t know
that when I decided to leave you
one month early
to become my own person
and to learn how to be a woman
you wouldn’t be as close
as you once were,
and I wouldn’t be able to listen
to your heartbeat anymore.
And every night I find myself
curled up in the same position
I was in years ago
and wishing for a heartbeat to listen to,
even if it’s not yours,
because I hate sleeping alone
and it’s not something
you can get used to,
even after fourteen years.
Love,
Your Daughter
Thank you for taking care of me
those eight months I spent
curled up in your womb,
slowly being knit together
and listening to your heartbeat.
I appreciate that time
you spent with me then
as much as I appreciate
the time you spend with me now.
But somehow I didn’t know
that when I decided to leave you
one month early
to become my own person
and to learn how to be a woman
you wouldn’t be as close
as you once were,
and I wouldn’t be able to listen
to your heartbeat anymore.
And every night I find myself
curled up in the same position
I was in years ago
and wishing for a heartbeat to listen to,
even if it’s not yours,
because I hate sleeping alone
and it’s not something
you can get used to,
even after fourteen years.
Love,
Your Daughter
Literature
Underappreciated
A moth is beautiful
but none choose to praise it.
Instead, monarchs flutter, and suddenly,
twenty-four lines are written about how
its amber coloring
reminds you of autumn's heartbreaks
and winter's futile approach, seizing
the broken vessel you tried to tape
together, but to no avail;
its black outline
reminds you of the eyeliner she wore
day after day, all perfect and pristine,
until one day,
you found her among rosebushes & lilacs
crying out "Why does it always rain?"
Where is her sun?
its slender antennae
reminds you of stilts, splintery and all,
Literature
dear mothers
Dear mothers, you call it adolescent confusion and it is, we know that,
but we respect your opinions when you say you want divorces, so is it too much to ask
that you accept the word 'gay' without the arguments and the denial?
Dear mothers, stop the victim-blaming, it isn't our fault if our ex-boyfriends pinned us to the wall
and unzipped his pants. We didn't ask for it by dressing like a slut or being a lesbian,
just like you didn't ask for lung cancer by having a daddy that smoked his heart black.
Dear mothers, cutting is maladaptive, but do you know how angry that word can make us? When
all you can say is that it's a sickness and there'
Literature
Grandma
“Is there something terribly wrong with me?”
I sigh and look up from my book. In the evening light my grandmother stares back at me, utterly unaware that it’s the third time she’s asked in as many minutes. Complex maps of wrinkles frame her wide eyes, each crease charting the grief, joy and laughter of a lifetime she is slowly forgetting. I look at her and I remember the wit and spark that used to punctuate her speech. I remember the way she used to strike up a conversation with anyone, anywhere; how she’d find wonder in the simplicity of everyday life. Her curiosity, her sense of adventure, her love of the worl
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In response to #Letters-To-Myself prompt: Letter To Your First Love. My mom was my first love, and I know that sounds lame, but I really do love her for all she's done, and I'll probably give this to her for Christmas in about a month! Tell me what you think!
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Isn't it so damn wonderful that you are bound to love the person whose mistake is your existence? The person who tortured you for all these years?