I was 15 years old, frightened by adolescent boys and my own ugly reflection, and I was trying to convince change upon a woman who had loved drugs longer than she had known me. It didn’t matter if I turned 16 the year after or 22 a few later; there was never a reason good enough for her to change. Now I refuse to state that I was not good enough, because I was good enough, any innocent child is a reason good enough- and my mother had two of them. She had my father, and he is the best man I’ve ever known. I was the perfect reason for her to change and I deserved all the love she could not give me, but there are so many people in this world who deserve good things and do not get them. The love she couldn’t give me does not get to decide who I am, though, it does not decide who I become, and it will never be the voice that tells me I am not worth the love I did not get. I have grown up, and now I decide. I decide that the love I lend to myself and every other person I cross determines who I am. I decide that I am lucky to be my father’s daughter. I decide that I am good because of what I’ve learned from my mother even if I taught it all to myself. I can give love, and I will give love for as long as I can hold onto it. My mum couldn’t hold onto it, she made it clear in the ways she pushed us away. This is not to dismiss her trying, because I could see her try; I saw it slipping through her fingers like a cigarette every Christmas Eve. She tried to hold on with her eyes half closed and her spirit somewhere else. This world hurts, and so sometimes we let it fall. Mum let it fall and just, didn’t ever pick it back up. What I’ve learned from my mother is to not let it fall, to not let it go and if you do, you must pick it back up; even if it burns. We cannot let love fall. I’m very well acquainted with the bad parts of me, shouting and wailing, I know how they sound when they howl. They've scratched me, pulled out my hair, they've consumed important parts of me. They’ve tried to convince me I’m no good, and that I will be exactly who she is. They’ve smacked love out of my hands, dropped it to the floor, and said leave it. But I wont, my mother taught me better than that. still holding onto it.
i decide that we are not our trauma; we are not destined to fail.
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AuthorThese words are written by Sam. She is the author of Bloom, Poetry and Prose, and Until I Feel Like My Own Mother, enjoys sitting in the sun, eating fruits, and making people smile. Archives
May 2021
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