You are cold and you are dead
But I cannot believe it.
I bend down to kiss your cheek
And though your so-called friend has
Waited fifteen minutes to tell me you are dead
You are still warm.
The neighbors traipse in my living room
Unaware that they are trespassing,
Unaware my mother’s friend didn’t give me
A moment to myself.
You are cold and you are dead
And I stay up all night
Trying to find the words that will make
Everything all right.
But what I find are words instead
To give the audience a sense
That it is not you who are hurt.
You are not bleeding.
You are no longer burdened
By your disappointment in me.
How dared I call you in the hospital
After that shower
Where I screamed in one long scream
How dared I put that burden on you
I wasn’t the one who was dying.
You wanted me to mother you
But I didn’t know what a mother was
Pressed for a definition I might have said:
A mother is someone to disappoint—someone to explain away—someone who leaves cryptic messages that only I have the power to decode—someone who says she will never understand you—someone who picks at you and tries to make you perfect—someone who chases you upstairs with a rod to teach you fear—
Someone you know who loves you and prioritizes you, then leaves you far behind
With the knowledge that no one will ever love you that much again.