Things I'll Never Tell My Mother

If I'm being melodramatic,
then you are like a broken hinge,
barely hanging from the frame, flapping
in the wind of my departure.

For me, it always comes back to the death of things.
I am still so much
your little girl.
Even when I tear that skin, unravel
the braids of my childhood
and seek escape,
I find I'm tethered at the precipice --
Flightless,
faulted, and ever
rolling toward your comfort.
Still, I yank at my chains.
Terrified of needing you,
terrified of letting go.

I suppose, in all honesty,
I am the wayward hinge.
I cling to the passageway,
and long to keep you swinging at my whim.

Unable to do so,
I only hold air.

2011