Mother's Day

So, this isn't so much a review this time around as it is just a simple poem for my Mother on this very special day. This morning I woke up to being given orders, being called bitchy and miserable after a late night of being awake, and then smothered with affection before my parents went on their merry way to go on the Mother's day date. So here I am, all alone, in my bedroom, holding a laptop and peering into the screen as if it has any sort of answer for my question - the question being, why the FUCK do I still live here, of course. To be candid though, as much as my mother and I butt heads because of our disorders with our personalities and such, she is very dear to me and I do care about her quite a bit. I deal with her cruelty and bite my tongue because that's just 10% of a portrait. I once dated a guy - who was a fucking lunatic, but that's not really the point - who told me after our break up that no matter what I tried to do, the moment one stepped back to take in the full painting his life had always been a portrait of me. Now, that's a bit creepy, considering he'd been calling me a murderer that entire time because his mother got cancer and that was somehow or another my fault because he was too depressed and whiny over a girl three states away and lost his job, thus putting them into debt when his brother also needed a surgery. (I didn't believe half the shit he said, hence the ending of the relationship) But it really made me think, while I know I was never important in that guy's life and never will be no matter how much at the time I loved and adored him, I wondered what my mother would say - so I asked her.


I asked her what the portrait her life created looked like, and she closed her eyes and she said, 'The portrait is a big picture of me and my family.' And she began listing off names in order of who her eyes saw first, and I was the last one to be named (go figure) right after my brother. Now I know you can imagine the pain that'd be on my mind in that moment, not that she'd ever see it because I am too good at hiding it anymore, but it was a serious slap to the face. So, thus I am inspired from my pain. Please enjoy this poem.

Mother

an original poem by Octavia

Beauty seeping from every pore

on peach skin and flushed flesh.

There are no scars, no imperfections

that your brutality cannot hide.

Your words are a foundation or concealer,

a make up used to cover up the pain.

I learned how to do that from the best.

I learned that crying was a weakness

in the eyes of my Mother.

That if I told her how I felt, somehow

or another it'd be my fault and she'd

argue it until I'd be too weak to disagree.

Bloodied words beating on immature skin

and telling me one moment I am not good enough,

and the next that I am completely perfect.

Mother, on this day dedicated to you that

is supposed to be about joy, happiness, and togetherness,

I am so alone, so mad, and so broken.

Thank you Mother, for being my best reminder

to trust no one.