no, i mean this anger
no, i mean this guilt
no. i mean, what is the difference
between this anger and guilt?
because the chains all rattle the same behind me.
i could go and ask my mother,
but the lines on her face would deepen
and she would tell me there is only anger
and she doesn’t know guilt
and how could i expect her to believe in something
which she has never experienced?
and would i take the trash on my way out?
i am unsure if it is my fault my mom feels this way,
or if it is my fault she doesn’t feel any differently.
she’s sewn me richly ornamented robes,
woven from girlhood ambitions fallen short
threaded with hopes she had long dismissed.
but i am not joseph, and the garments never seemed to fit me right.
and my mother is not god,
her love has never been unconditional.
the robes have long since become stiff
gathering dust on the coat rack.
maybe i could hang some of the guilt there, too.
or maybe i’ll hang the anger.
or maybe i’ll hang both.
or maybe i’ll hang on to it all a little longer.
i never learned when it’s appropriate to let go
and i learned a little too late about the bruises i leave behind by holding on so tightly.
a lesson all my mothers before me had to learn.
after all, in the very beginning,
eve never once received a mothers embrace.
the closest mother she had was the garden of eden.
(was she saddened in her exile, or was she relieved to be free?)
i haven’t posted or written much since 2018, funny how i always come back to writing
