Wrapped in blankets I stared up at my mother,
Eldest child blessed with the first taste of her love.
I grew up surrounded by a suffocating warmth,
the kind of overwatering that drowns daisies,
the kind of sun that creates dry, burning deserts.
I was raised a smart kid, nice and sweet,
I used to be intelligent and pretty, behaved.
So cruel, to lose yourself to your own shadow.
You see, it has been a while since I was my mother’s child.
I am no longer smart, no longer nice or sweet.
I am no longer bright, no longer pretty or charming.
I yearn to be five, still blossoming, still perfect.
Comfortable silence and warm blankets when it rains,
my mother makes it nice, her arms are home.
She is the reason I can find refuge from the storm,
and the keeper, she who guards my pains.
My mother\'s love is a field of poppy flowers
Pretty, familiar, unaware, burning, caring,
My mother loves hating me and hates loving me.
You see, it’s been a while since we’ve been honest.
I know I am the reason why she cries at night.
She hurts because I’m leaving and I hurt cause I’m not.
I need her next to me but I need her to understand,
I have to leave and I have to grow up.
I’m sorry, I love you. But I love myself more.
I knew nothing but what you told me,
but it\'s been a while since you taught me.
I have learned to find life on my own.
I have decided I deserve you,
even if you didn’t deserve what made you into a woman.
I need to be you and I can\'t stand the thought of it.
I still watch the news at nine-thirty to rewind it
and wash my hands after sitting on the bus for an hour.
The love that watered my wildflower field
received a better treatment than your garden.
You grew petunias when you wanted poppy flowers.
Your rebellion sprouted white calla lilies,
those were considered pretty enough for now.
You never got a garden, you got a pot when she got a mountain.
I\'m sorry about that. It\'s still not my fault.
Tell her to leave, you just beg her to love.
I can\'t blame you. I do.
I got you a lighter last year for your birthday
You don\'t like how matches let flames lick your fingers.
You\'ve tossed it aside for months now, lost in a purse.
But yesterday, her garden caught fire.
Carnations, petunias and hyacinths went up in a blaze,
Hydrangeas, tulips and daffodils grew in their stead.
She chose the wrong seeds, she’s surprised they bite back.
They say red is hot, I say it bleeds.
May her blood feed your poppies.
May our bridge bloom.
I forgive your overwatering, please forgive my age
I forgot your garden starved, I forgot I was your child.