A short poem about being a plant mom.
The broken and healed parts of me meet where I help others.
My feelings have whole lives I’ve never let them live out.
I am more incinerator than incubator.
Forgiveness is a verb
done at a high resistance.
My hurt just wants to be heard.
When my eyes get angry,
they are blind to everything but another’s weaknesses.
This is never more true than when I look in a mirror.
I replaced the words in my prayers from something someone else wrote
to the names of all the women who built me.
It felt holier that way.
I wish I were less guarded,
but I’ve never been wanted after
I show someone the color of my soul.
I didn’t have to say a word.
My back betrayed my silence–
with one touch, they felt everything I’d carried.
Suddenly, with another set of hands,
it wasn’t as heavy anymore.