I’VE GOT MY MOTHER’S EYES
BUT I DIDN’T INHERIT HER THRESHOLD FOR PAIN
To give and give and give
Yet still feel undeserving
To love so much more than you
Could hope for in return
To birth your third child
While my father reads the newspaper
How did you stomach it?
How do you still?
She says I must detach to self-preserve
She says A woman’s empathy is not a bottomless well
She says I must be more careful when speaking
She says I must always bleed discreetly
But where do I put it?
All of this rage
that I’m expected to stifle?
Why do you insist on asking these questions?
When you know I’ve got no answers that soothe?
Mothers do not console their crying daughters by telling hopeless truths
No bandage will cover the entire surface area of this wound
You must learn to pretend it isn’t needed