I Think About My Mother And What She Had To Let Go To Take Care Of Me. I Think About The Photo Of Her

i think about my mother and what she had to let go to take care of me. i think about the photo of her when she was young, her eyes bright and golden, maybe she passed them to another child in another world. i think about how she didn't grow up, i think about the pain she was inflicted with to prove herself of her womanhood, of the burden she earned when she had children. i think about being in her womb, warm and parasitic, sucking the life force out of her, making her losing all locks of her dark, long hair. i think about her drastic weight loss, i think about her face holes, i think about her sudden shift in mood and satisfaction. i think about how i was the end to my mother, how i brought death to her the moment i was born and months i laid in her womb. i think about her mother calling her every other day, wishing she could see her and embrace her. i think about the nights my mother misses my grandmother, and how i wish she didn't have to be with me instead. i think about my mother and it aches because no matter how hard i try, i can never be gentle with her. i think about how i hate her with so much fury, but never wipe her watering eyes when she wanders. i think about how i love her to the point a part of me breaks and shakes and dies, but i can't show it without shouting and screaming and yelling. i think about how my mother yearns to be hugged and embraced by her own mother, how i wish i could be that for her, how i want to coddle her and kiss her forehead and tell her everything will be alright. i think about how my mother has crossed oceans for me to sleep beside me on lonely nights, how her mother would cross the same oceans to wash her hair, how i can't even seem to reach out to her and hold her close. i think about my mother shampooing my hair, and how warm her hands are, how safe i feel so bare infront of another human being, how the love from the womb comes back.