A poem
to my mother about the arguement we just had.
I am not perfect.
Not a single speck in my soul was
ever that perfect or innocent.
I've grown to the harsh realities too
early and you already know that.
The exposure of the hatred and that
single harsh reality brought a hole
to my heart and though I never admit
it, it does really hurt more than you
believe.
You believe that I think I am perfect,
what part of me is perfect if those parts
of me was already taken without a question?
Consent was just as if it was an invitation
that was never recieved that following day.
There were a lot of days where I grew up,
the day my mother, you left the house; I matured.
When my own father asked a hug before he
walked out on me the several months before
my own birthday, no my birthday isn't on
Canada's day (so why call me on that day?)
yes I played with toys and such but everything
changed that night.
Because I wasn't an oblivious child anymore,
I was a girl in grade 4 who was asked in grade 6
by a girl who was my new friend who wondered
what my father worked as.
What part of me is perfect if I have a broken past
which continues to bother me a lot til this day.
I'm embarrassed, people who believe in perfection
have a high confidence but I never did.
The loudest laughter seems to be the fakest and
so I laughed to blend in with the crowd so you'd
never know that a laughing family has cheap
wallpaper covering a hole in the wall of a room.
A room which is my heart.
So there you go, Mom.
A poem to my mother about the arguement we just had. I am not
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·
Feb 17, 2016 9:27pm
