Mother, I cannot pray any longer. Not with you. I now become tired, easily. The prayer is the same. The words are the same. Your words are the same. There are more fun things to do. More than to just sit and wait. For false hopes, failed promises.
Mother, I am not your life. Stop lying. You have your own. The umbilical cord was cut. A long time ago. We will go on our separate ways. Soon. I have my own heartbeat.
My breasts have become bigger. My glands will have milk. My lips will be kissed. My hair will be stroked. Someone else, mother, not you. Not anymore. Always is a word to change. I will change it. I will change.
Do not cook anymore. The food you serve has become stale. My taste buds ventured to the peculiar. Your effort of delicacy no longer excites my nostrils.
Enough, mother. Stop seizing me with these haunting echoes. Let go. Let go of woes. Let go of me.
I need your laughter, mother. That is your best farewell gift. I am your burden. It is time. I need to pain. I need to learn your sorrow. Your death is my birth.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment