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.