mothers
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My mother’s love was a garden of thorns. I grew there, tangled in the roots, bleeding with each reach for her hand. She smiled, tired and proud, and said, “This is how we’ve always grown.” But no one told me the soil was watered with tears, generation after generation, until the earth itself was heavy…
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Dear Mama, I am 3 or 5 when I first remember being alive. The world is empty, faded, and cold. Everything seems rickety and half-sewn together. An off hours thrill ride with the lights left on. It leaves me with a feeling of queasiness that I won’t be able to shake for the rest of…