A mother of teenagers, vents.
Whose Phone Is It Anyway?
As a young mother I was regal and grand.
The children and household were at my command.
But later in life, as my children grew,
They took over my stuff, including my shoes.
They ripped holes in my jeans and called it 'the style'.
The sleeves of my shirts lay there in a pile.
My jewelry was gathered and worn off to school.
"Mom doesn't care...Plus...I need to look cool."
Nothing was sacred, not even my space.
Gone were my hairbrush and my make-up case.
The TV remote had found some new hands.
The CD player blared with head-banger bands.
I yelled and I hollered and felt all alone,
Especially when fighting over the phone.
My screams were lost among teenage chatter.
The veins in my neck popped out - even fatter.
Now they are older but not quite yet grown.
They apologize to me for hogging the phone.
"It's really okay," I say, now that I'm calm.
'Cuz I've found new interests - on Writing.com.