confession ii; MY MOTHER IS […]


my teacher asks me what i want to be.

“my mommy,” i reply without hesitation.

my mother is my world.

i want to be just like her,

nothing else.


my mother can fix me up in no time with a warm bowl of homemade soup.


my mother is the smartest person in the world. she can solve arithmetic problems in a single heartbeat.


my mother can do that in a second when she laughs and talks with people who she might not necessarily like.

when i’m at kindergarten during the day, i draw my mom with radiant hair, a beautiful dress, and the reddest, prettiest lips. and i draw a tiny figure next to her, looking up at her, and label it me.

i want to be my mother.

she is my superhero, my world.

beautiful, lovely, and kind.


my mother is mean.

i wish i had a different mom.

she won’t let me invite people over to our house.

my friends go over to each other’s houses.

i feel left out.

i feel horrible.

she wants me to finish homework – boring boring homework – before sitting down on the large recliners to watch The Suite Life Of Zach and Cody.

it’s not like i’m not going to do homework before it’s due.w

she won’t let me buy the new Nintendo DS Lite.

“it’s bad for your eyes.”

she won’t let me go to mcdonalds with my friends after i finish my gymnastics class.

she wants me to do gross math.

“it’ll be worth it in the future”

she won’t let me paint my nails.

“they’re bad for your nails.”

i wish i could have a different mom.


my mother doesn’t understand me.

she doesn’t understand i need to text my friends to keep up my social life.

she doesn’t understand that the closet full of clothes i have right now is not enough.

she doesn’t understand that i want to go to a mall by myself with my friends.

because walking around with parents aren’t cool at all.

“i’m thirteen,” i protest to my mom indignantly.

“you can’t.”

“i hate you,” i scream, running to my room and slamming the door shut just to let her know that i’m fucking pissed.

she says no to everything.

i lock the door so my mom can’t enter and shout at me for shouting at her.

i’m mad at my mother for not understanding me.

she doesn’t understand that studying is hard for me because i’ve never studied in my life.

she doesn’t understand me because she was perfect and beautiful and smart and all things in between and i’m just me.

my mother doesn’t understand.


i’m tired from studying at the library.

my back is aching from all the textbooks i am carrying in my tattered book bag.

i trudge home, looking around carefully to see if there is anyone trailing behind me.

i have seen countless news reports of rape and sexual harassment and i know that the things that are happening are not someone else’s story.

i am scared.

i see the light reflect from my house like a life vest in the drowning sea and i run faster than i have before.

i rush in, and my mother is busy washing dishes from tonight’s dinner.

“did you eat anything?” she quips worriedly.

“no. i’m sleepy, mom. i’m going to go to sleep. don’t bother me.”

i’m irritated and tired and exhausted and my eyes are drooping shut.

i walk into my room and shut the door behind me, flopping onto the bed.

as soon as i’m about to fall asleep, i feel a warm, soft hand over my cheeks, and a small kiss is planted on my forehead.

“as long as you’re not sick.”

“i love you, my baby girl.”


and i’m crying; sobbing; begging my mom not to send me back to school, that hellhole.

my heart aches and i know i have to tell her.

the look on her face is heartbreaking, as she gathers me up, broken fragments and all, like i’m her newborn baby girl all again;

“did something happen?”

“he never liked me, mom. it was all a joke. i can’t face them. i can’t.”

i let out a heart wrenching sob and latch onto my mother’s shoulders like i’m five again, fallen off my bike, knees scraped.

because although i know better, although i know that she isn’t a magical being,

i cling to her because she’s my mother.

she’ll know how to fix me.

she’ll just know.

and she cradles me and whispers soothing words and i never want to leave those arms.

because if i do,

i’ll have to be alone.

i’ll be crowded by those dark, opaque thoughts that i thought i could never escape no matter how fast i ran.

i’ll feel suffocated whenever i pass by him and look into his smirking eyes and realize that i was so fucking stupid.

i’ll never be okay.

i don’t want to leave.


and i don’t want to let her go.

i have a terrible sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach

as tears roll down my cheeks whenever i try and form syllables,

and i try and laugh

because i don’t want to see my mother cry.

i’ve made her cry too many times.

when she said no to everything,

maybe i was forgetting the thousand times she said yes.

when she wanted me to stay at home,

maybe i was forgetting that she wanted me to be safe.

when she shouted at me,

maybe i was forgetting the times she smiled at me and stroked my hair and told me she loved me.

when i rolled my eyes at her constantly,

maybe i was forgetting the times she gave up the master bedroom in the small, cramped house we had, painted it purple, and made it into my room.

when i thought that she was a hero,

maybe i was forgetting that my mother is human, and she is flawed, and she is as scared as i am.

when i thought that she was bothersome,

maybe i was forgetting that although she would sometimes feel weak, she would have to be a pillar for my weakness, and be a shadow of a tree for my vulnerabilities.

when i slammed the door of my bedroom,

maybe i was forgetting the time she remembered everything i wanted and eventually bought me everything.

when i screamed at her and told her i hated her,

maybe i was forgetting that i had made her cry one too many times and i hurt her with every word that was carelessly spat from my mouth.


and i still get irritated at her sometimes,

i still lock the door after a screaming match.

i still roll my eyes and spit sarcastic words at her.

i still throw tantrums and beg her to buy me unnecessary merchandise.

but i miss her.

i fucking miss her.

i miss her presence everyday when i wake up and she’s not next to me.

i miss her when i can’t smell the scent of delicious food wafting from the kitchen into my room.

i miss her when i have nobody to say goodbye to when i leave for school.

i miss her when i come back to my dorm and there’s nobody to excitedly tell stories of what happened to her and him.

i miss the sound of her laugh.

i miss her scent.

i miss her.

my mother is my world.

i want to be my mother.

because although she is nowhere near perfect,

she is the best damn person i know.

so next time i see her,

i won’t scream at her.

i won’t tell her i hate her.

i won’t slam the door in her face.

i’ll go up to her,

hug her,

and tell i her i love you.

and thank you 

thank you for being my mother.


– a confession to my mother; [MY MOTHER IS MY WORLD]

written Apr 24th, 2017

{ dear mom,

there are so many things i have said, and so many things i have not said.

and god, mom, i regret them both.

i love you. i love you. i love you. 

dear mom,

i love you.

i could say that a thousand times and it wouldn’t be enough.

i could also say i’m sorry, and it wouldn’t be enough.

but i’ll settle for i love you.

because although i’ve fucked up way too many times,

you keep forgiving me, and i don’t know why because if i think of the things i did, i really don’t deserve it.

but how do i apologize for all the things that i’ve not become?

every time i think of how you’ve put my needs in front of your needs,

i feel terrible.

because i’d never be able to do that.

and i’ve hurt you too many times,

when all you tried to do is love me and care for me, and watch out for me.

i’ve screamed things at you that i didn’t mean, mom.

and i believe there are only a certain amount of words one can tell another person,

and i’m scared that i’ve used them all to spit negative things in the spur of the moment that i never really meant in the bottom of my heart.

when i was upset and crying and broken,

you patched me up and stitched me back together again.

i’ll also settle for thank you

because although heroes don’t exist,

you do.

and guess what?

you’re so much better than any stupid hero running around with a pair of spandex boxers over tights.

i love you mom.

and also, thank you. }


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