Mothers And Daughters - Blog Posts

i need to hug my mother and cry into her neck because i miss the warm embrace of her womb and this bed is too cold for me; i just wish she held me. i just want her to care for me forever, no matter how bitter and painful loving me is

"I love my mother. I really do.

And I know that she loves me too. I know that she made difficult choices in order of that love and I know that she sacrificed a lot too. I love her for that, for chosing me over other things, other people, other choices.

But there are days where I cause her to be angry, by disobeying her, by not listening to her, and she says the cruelest things I never thought I would hear from her, and I can't help but think that a part of her, a little yet significant part of her, thinks that I owe her for that. I, her only daughter, owe her all the sweat, all the tears, all the blood she lost for loving me. A part of her that will always blame me for what she had to do.

And I don't know if I should feel like I do owe her my own sweat, tears and blood.

Should I? Is it true that I owe her all of that? Is it true that I have to give all of that back to her one day? Do I have to sacrifice myself too? ”

—a quiet thought that I had to write down.

mothers & daughters

i wish my mother liked me more

i know she loves me

she has to

i just wish she likes me sometimes

i wish i was all the things she wanted in a daughter

instead of all the things she didn't

i wish she liked me more

than she likes her religion

i wish i liked my mother more

i try, i really do

i just can't help but roll my eyes, sometimes

or sigh when she asks a question

i wish i could see past her flaws

or even love her in spite of them

i wish i could break the cycle

and yet around and around it goes

"i never see you getting angry, when i was your age i used to be so, so angry"

perhaps we're more similar then i think mother, i don't think I've stopped screaming internally since the 7th grade, the amount of violence it took to convert my tears into deep-rooted anger, but i listen to your sad past anyways, unflinchingly, all my anger directed towards my grandmother, and her grandmother, and hers, a long line of cruel women, who in turn built crueler versions of themselves. i can't tell you about how each time i look into a mirror, i see not myself, but all the crueler and harder versions of me, and i see you, the woman i swore not to be when i was little.

i cursed you for sacrificing so much, but I'm older now mama, now i feel the same rage as you do and i curse at how you are all i could be in the future, with the same screaming daughter inside.

This is Wyoming 

The barbed fence undulates into the horizon The long rollers of the deep old sea feathered with grass Dotted with pronghorn and ghosts of buffalo

Capped in bright sky

The great plain The red car zipping Through the simmering tar

The woman almost 50 The woman bright and lively after 70

Talk rolls back and forth

Some thunder

There have always been hard lines Etched in old oceans There has always been wind cutting across the plane Changing everything

 -Skye’s Poem