Poppy fields


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.

  • Author: Andromeda (Pseudonym) (Offline Offline)
  • Published: October 10th, 2023 04:50
  • Comment from author about the poem: Healing is hard, love your mom with her faults.
  • Category: Forgiveness
  • Views: 0
  • User favorite of this poem: aDarkerMind.
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  • Natalie Gladmir

    "I grew up surrounded by a suffocating warmth."
    If you only knew how many children lack parental care and warmth. Suffocating warmth... Years will pass and you will be nostalgic for your mother's warmth.
    Any misunderstanding can be resolved over a cup of tea. I think so.

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