“Mom, are you here?”
“Mom, can you hear?”
I keep asking in my mind
everytime I try to unwind.
All these things that I want to share
And I look at you in hopes that you might spare some care,
for me as well, your child,
so that I don’t have to dwell
on the thought, “Do you love me Ma?
Or do you loathe me Mumma?”
These questions don’t leave
my eyes linger to seize
some evidence, some clue
to calm the chaos that ensues
within me, day after day,
of seeing remorse replay.
Mom I am also your kid
Not an emotional support kit.
“Mom are you here?”
“Mom, can you hear?”
I keep asking in my mind
everytime I try to unwind.