I yearn for a mother’s love

I yearn for a mother’s love,
though my own still lives.

I wish I could open myself up
with all my faults and sins and vices,
with all the terrible things I have ever done,
like pieces of broken glass scattered on the
forgotten floor. I wish she would pick them up
and piece them together with her bloody hands,
and paint it gold.
I long for the tears that I shed with her
and not because of her,
scars on my hand that were not
a consequence of childish wrongdoings,

My mother, she is the result of anger
of her mother who is the result of the anger
of her mother who is the result of the anger
of her mother who is the result of.
I am the child of anger.
Doesn’t a burning fire presume the water a threat
when it is only trying to calm her down?
I do not want to be the child of anger.

She perhaps loves,
through paying my fees,
cooking for me,
buying my clothes.
She loves me through necessities
and common monotonies;
She never loved me in a way
I could understand.
She never loves me,
through twilight conversations,
surprise outings,
teenage girlhood.
She did not love me in
the way I desired,
She never stuck around in a conversation
long enough to understand them.

I yearn for a mother’s love,
though my own still lives.