Ma

I don’t ever remember calling you anything else. Not before, not after, even during the in-between.

I only ever remember calling you ma.

You raised me half of my life. Half of my 29 years.

More like half of the 30 I haven’t reached yet.

You filled such a huge void in tiny me’s life. A me who was so used to being hurt, beaten, and abused.

In my minds eye, you were one of few who never demonized me, or made me feel shame.

Never told me I was less than, or not worth all the trouble; because wasn’t I so much trouble?

I remember telling you they’d called me an evil spawn, I remember telling you they said I deserved it.

You were horrified, that horror reminded me of before, when I’d run to you, and you’d hold me and make it better.

When we reconnected I was afraid, I didn’t know what to expect, I thought you would love me less; you didn’t.

But I didn’t want to get hurt again, because I’d felt like I’d already lost you once. I kept my distance.

I need more time, time to fill that space again, to spend more time, and share more;

moments. I need more,

to show you I turned out exactly how you said I would; loved and loving.

I need more time to have less regrets, because I don’t know how I can make it with them,

not as they are right now.

I just need more time.

Misconceptions

I thought I had to suffer to earn the right to receive truth, to be in your inner circle, and feel the closest parts of you.

It felt like, I always had to endure pain just to get consistency from you.

Every time the pain stopped, so would the texts, the pop ups, the calls. All of a sudden its late nights and less talks.

I was always the problem, I wanted too much, but what’s too much when you wanted all of me?

My vulnerability, my tears, my pain, my body, and my traumas?

Regret

I go back and forth daily. Trying to get to a place where I don’t go back and forth at all. Fighting to get every part of you out of me, my mind, and my body. It is a curse. I am haunted. Haunted by the what if’s, the why’s, the maybe’s. I don’t want any of it, yet every room I enter, every pull of my heart, and every song reminds me. It flashes your face before me and pulls more of my soul into hell. Burning with desire, love, and hatred. I write about it every day. How many ways can I say I love you, that I miss you, that it hurts?

Why

The repeated question that I can’t seem to stop asking; I hate wanting closure.

Closure, as I’ve always believed, is a fallacy. It’s a false sense of “well now it makes sense, so the pain will stop:” and the pain doesn’t stop.

Why need it? He didn’t. For him it was an easy flip. Not even a conversation. Just act different, eventually she’ll get it.