My Mother Is Everywhere.

Keeping my existence a secret between me and my mother.

How often do I find myself peeling,
at wounds that have dried and cracked
how often do I find myself feeling
so offended, so loved and so attacked?

Like a bookworm,
you eat away at every word of my being
you leave remnants of myself
like stories without meaning
I find no purpose within myself
full of holes in my plotline
full of so much yet not enough
what am I if not words to define
for what is winged if not a seraph?

You are a gardener,
you dig, you shove and you pull
you expect blossom to be forced
what are you if nature is cruel
digging at the soil of pits that are closed
the seed had been lost so long ago
swallowed and spit out by time
digested by ego, rotten to be hollow
bookworms nibbling at every rhyme

You are my mother,
telling me what and what not to do
piling up every wrong that I've done
telling me who and who not to speak to
teaching me to love,
then never look back and run.

So, I run.

I run till the edge of this spherical Earth,
I run to where the Sun touches the Moon
I run back to the time of my forsaken birth
I run to cut the stem,
before the flower shall bloom.

I run to tell my mother to never marry
to not make her arms burn with discomfort
how my father made her sad and angry
and despair awaited her,
for every drop of sweat and effort.

I run, to the graveyard where I would lie,
to scratch my mother's name off my tomb
so that I was never born, did never die
I would be a secret,
a secret between me and the womb.