I hate how much I will always love the idea of you
Holding tight to the faint flutter of a false memory
Of a mother’s warm touch and soft lullabies
That inner child, grasping tight to a broken innocence
Left shattered and scarred by the hands and words
Of the one most meant to nurture and protect it
Each blow chipping away at any hope and light
Every stinging word biting into the shell that is left
Surrounding the spark of life hiding desperately deep
That tiny ember, sputtering and cold, planted within
Straining to shield the last glimpse of identity, of love
Behind the reflection of a subdued and broken spirit
I buried that child’s ember, coaxing it to grow and sprout
Countering past blows with soft images of rare kindness
Softening sharp words with an enhanced understanding
That my mother’s child was shattered and scarred, lifeless
Her small spark was buried too deep, and too late
As was her father’s, the pain reaching through generations
I have buried these lost children, laid them to rest in love
Accepting them and forgiving, ending lifetimes of damage
Mourning, my child held them close as together they faded
And grew to be me.
