Mom —
There are things I don’t understand.
Things about love,
the way it clings like wet laundry,
heavy on the skin;
the way it wraps itself tight,
until the air grows so thick,
each breath feels like a battle.
How can something so soft
feel so suffocating?
I love you, but I hate you.
And I hate that I hate you.
It’s a knot I can’t untangle,
a weight I can’t carry without breaking.
You say you love me,
but your love is too heavy—
it presses down,
until I can’t gasp for oxygen.
I wish you could see it—
how you twist into shapes
you think you should be,
only to feel whole.
You say you’re smart, but you refuse to grow.
You say you’re learning,
but you hide behind lessons that teach you nothing.
You’re stuck,
and you pull me
into the quicksand with you.
There are days when I understand
why Dad needed space,
why he wandered into someone else’s arms
to find a place to breathe.
I don’t forgive him,
but I feel it too.
It makes sense now, in the aftermath,
why he slipped away from a prison
you call home.
Your disease spreads like vines,
seeping into every corner of the house.
It’s the way you need me
that chains me down.
How am I supposed to love anyone
when love feels
like a cage I can’t escape?
I moved out
into a room no bigger than my shadow,
four walls that don’t close in
but hold me steady.
I stare at the ceiling,
and it feels like the sky.
Here, silence doesn’t smother.
It cradles me gently,
gives me space to remember who I am.
In this emptiness, I found
myself again.
I am not running away,
but I’m not coming back.
Maybe distance is the thread
for stitching up the broken promises
none of us has ever kept.
— Your daughter