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Dear Mother:
You picked at my love it was a cancerous sore that would never heal I was quite the weal oozing, gaping, open and wide, I was mostly your disdain, not your Mother's pride something to correct something to ignore something to sanitize something to remold dissolve away like gelatin sometimes I wished it was me you would abhor so then I'd be free to hate you instead of ignore the pain of being nothing it'd be so much better than to malinger in limbo than to carry the weight of you and your heavy indifference only then I was freed to answer question #336 the one which said, I didn't really love you I was completely different from the mix a mere invalidation, unlike the rest how like me to be messing with the test me being the so-called excuse for a life I was cajoled then told that I was now quite a prevaricator if I denied away your maternal progenitor look at me now from your true blue heaven I've become the wailing monster who desires Mamma's love but who never never knew what kind of beast laid the egg that hatched into her or how now life has become a windy howling hunger the preening need for a Mother who is no more. Copyright May 1 2016 All Rights Are Reserved By This Author time stamped 6:57 am PST Re-edited January 13, 2017, 6:35 AM Pacific Standard Time Meloo/Melissa A Howells straight from her Tilt-a-World. LEGAL COPYRIGHT FOR THIS WORK, FOR THIS SITE TITLE FOR THIS AUTHOR Vote for this poem |
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