I’m my mothers favorite child; I’m full of sacrifices.
Hers and mine, and so many women before us Substituting security and affection with systematized delusions.
I'm falling down the rabbit hole, not because of curiosity, nor distraction. But because of something akin to reality call.
All the rage that belonged to my ancestors before me, spilt ink that I spend my days crying over
And i wonder if I’m the one dragging it along with me, or is it the emotion that keeps weighing me down.
I was raised to be paranoid mother said that will protect me when she’s not around..
Now, I’m just my mother’s child and I only know how to define versions of myself through her.
Always free, never enough.
A mother lullaby can blend into her child's bones, my mother used to lull me to sleep by humming
"I love you madly, enough to embrace you in my eyes and see the world through you as I cover you with my eyelids"
I’m my mother’s daughter, a wound that refuses to heal.
I poke at it every time I question how can i convince someone who spends days and nights writing and rewriting my future that i grew up to be blind to all that is prewritten ?
That l'm building a pathway for a little life In the shadows of dreams that are out of my reach
That silk sutures hold my organs in place and lies dressed in white sew me dreams that my brain didn't dare to conjure.
That i learned to dilute the amount of love I have for everyone in my life. I don't understand the whys and hows of it but I know that I'm at the stage of life where I don't love without guarding myself.
And I refuse to be punished for feeling anymore, even if it meant I'II only ever know rage.
Meaningless and absolute.
I lose my details as i go. Leaving tracks of my soul behind me.
I shed pieces that i don't know how to define, like a snake does its skin. The only difference is that a lot of my potential lay there underneath it.
I think i overlooked discipline in my journey to search for wildness and inspiration,
and it seems like the only consistent in my life is my desire to change.
I know empathy the way I know my father. Should be present; but isn't. And I'll never be my mother, doesn't matter how much of herself she sees in me.
•••
•Quotes:Elana Dykewomon/ Chelsea g. summers/Azra.T/Robert Goolrick/hayan charara/Hannah Green/Sylvia Plath/ Fariha Róisín
•original context: Sinligh
•Art reference:
1. Winged Goddesses. Psyche II - Nudes & Butterflies By Carsten Witte. 2.Winged Goddesses. Psyche Il - Nudes & Butterflies By Carsten Witte. 3.Winged Goddesses. Psyche Il - Nudes & Butterflies By Carsten Witte. 4. 2. Metamorphosis 2 by Giovanni Gestel. 5. My Crisis are Blessing by Andrea Galad. 6. Papillon |I" or "Woman in Wings", by Louis Icart. 7.Art by Will Kim. 8. Art by James Jean.
