The hollowing out has
started; there's nowhere
fertile for the bitterness to
grow, so it slides off my stiff
shoulders and evaporates.
I didn't leave the house
because I was angry;
my clenched fists itched
for my heart, not yours,
stunned that I actually
believed I wouldn't be
hurt in the same places.
Forgiveness will not
heal me, and though it
may ease the ailments
of some, it only draws
me closer to death.
In the beginning, I was
clever to retreat the times
I did, tightening my lips
and relishing over leather
calluses on my skin, knowing
it would make me tougher.
For once, my overprotection
saved me. I didn't want to
run away or blame myself
and seek the solace of sharp
objects meant for rosebushes.
I see you for who you are,
and though the ache never
really ebbs, it reminds me
that you had more than a
hundred chances to call
me your daughter, the way
a daughter should be called,
yet you chose the easy path.
Though you've grown,
and your heart isn't all poison
ivy and twisted riverbends,
it's too late.
I lost my mind too often,
always tracing it back to
you, and you never repented,
never closed your mouth
when it was about to snatch
my dignity up.
I can't promise that
tomorrow I won't be
hungry, hunting for every
childhood memory you
gave me just so I can
burn it when you're not
home, but the lack of promises
gives me a semblance of strength.
I won't promise to move on,
anymore.
_______________________________________
Background music while writing: "Overgrown" by Mountains of the Moon
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RwNHSXHA50Y
