Mama
A word soft as dusk,
brushed in whispers,
a cradle in sound—
or a wound that never scabs.
For some, it hums like lullabies,
warm hands threading hair,
the scent of bread rising,
a lighthouse flickering in tired bones.
For others, it splinters,
a syllable that tightens the throat,
a call unanswered,
a door never opening.
Mama—
the architect of belonging,
or the seamstress of absence.
The root of all first rules:
Be quiet, be good, be wanted, be small.
Or else—
the echo of nothing at all.
She is the first mirror,
the reflection that either holds
or turns away.
The giver of names,
or the silence
where a name should have been.
Mama—
a word that still shapes
even when she is gone.
The Mother of Others
You call me,
only to let me ring in silence,
a ghost at the edge of your time.
You sigh when I need you,
your voice lined with the weight
of things more important than me.
Yet, I see you—
arms wide for strangers,
hands gentle for those
who already have a mother.
You pour love into cups
already full,
while mine cracks,
dry at the bottom.
I call, not for answers,
but to hear myself exist.
To know I was not a mistake
left outside your door.
But you are too busy
being what I needed—
for everyone else.
And I wonder,
if I had belonged to another,
would you have loved me then?
The Wound That Birthed Me
A mother is supposed to be hands—
soft, steady, cupped around the ache,
pressing warmth into the places
that life has bruised.
But you were the wound itself,
the first cut, the first silence,
the first lesson in being
too much
or not enough.
I learned to bandage myself
with quiet,
to swallow my own voice
before it could beg for softness.
You stitched love into others,
wrapped them in the warmth
I never felt.
And when I bled in front of you,
you asked why I was so messy.
A mother is supposed to heal—
but what happens
when she is the one
who makes you need healing
in the first place?
Still as I Can
Look, Ma—
I’m still being a good girl.
Still holding my breath,
still pretending patience is my gift.
Almost gone mad from waiting
but smiling, still—
the way you’d want.
The way I thought you’d notice.
I am the quiet champion
of holding on,
the queen of “maybe soon.”
But it’s getting dark here, Ma.
I almost can’t feel my body anymore.
I’m not sure if I’m disappearing
or just getting better at being invisible.
Was this a test?
Are you watching?
Did I pass?
Ma?
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Heal the mother wound with this 7 Step workbook.
English