I know something my mother does not.
I know she feels me growing inside,
gnawing at the chance for fresh air. the waves of emotions that trickle down
her spine as she presses her cold palm against her stomach.
I know something my mother does not.
I know the vibration of her vocal cords when she speaks. The harmonies and
melodies her voice sings when she is happy.
The cracks and gasps for air when she’s at a
lost for words.
I know something my mother does not.
I know she greets the mirror as a stranger some nights. Nights where she has nothing
but me and the warm bedsheet to tuck herself into.
And I’d hold her tightly if I only could,
till her tears turned to gold.
I know something my mother does not
She loves me already,
and she doesn’t even know I’m here.