deepundergroundpoetry.com
Approval
I wish I knew why you didn't like me, mommy. I have spent my whole life chasing something that tastes like your approval, even though it turns my stomach sour and cold.
I have cut away pieces and parts of myself, to fit into the shape that is you, and it will never be enough, I, will never be enough.
I am right here, mommy; waiting for you to finally realize that you have more than enough to love to share, enough to include me in window shopping trips, enough to buy me bath and body works lotions too, enough to call me more than just when you need something.
Your approval doesn't taste as good anymore, more of something like vinegar and spite, and I don't like the way it comes back up my throat in the middle of the night when I think no one else is listening.
I wish I knew why you loved her more than me, and why you hurt my feelings so much.
I have spent my whole life, trying to be more like her, in hopes that maybe if i'm just enough of her, you'll love the other half of me, but that day hasn't come yet, and I don't think it ever will.
I wish you loved me enough to just see how hard I have tried to please you, how hard I have loved you, how hard I've tried to make you like me.
Approval doesn't taste as good anymore, and my stomach feels cold and numb, and for some reason, i do too. And suddenly, I don't care too much at all, in fact, I don't care about me anymore at all. I don't care about anything.
I have cut away pieces and parts of myself, to fit into the shape that is you, and it will never be enough, I, will never be enough.
I am right here, mommy; waiting for you to finally realize that you have more than enough to love to share, enough to include me in window shopping trips, enough to buy me bath and body works lotions too, enough to call me more than just when you need something.
Your approval doesn't taste as good anymore, more of something like vinegar and spite, and I don't like the way it comes back up my throat in the middle of the night when I think no one else is listening.
I wish I knew why you loved her more than me, and why you hurt my feelings so much.
I have spent my whole life, trying to be more like her, in hopes that maybe if i'm just enough of her, you'll love the other half of me, but that day hasn't come yet, and I don't think it ever will.
I wish you loved me enough to just see how hard I have tried to please you, how hard I have loved you, how hard I've tried to make you like me.
Approval doesn't taste as good anymore, and my stomach feels cold and numb, and for some reason, i do too. And suddenly, I don't care too much at all, in fact, I don't care about me anymore at all. I don't care about anything.
Published 1st Oct 2023
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1st Oct 2023 5:55am
I'm pleased you are living your life the way you want to, rather than how others want you to. It's obvious to me you have plenty of love in your heart. Now that you are an adult, maybe now's a good time to politely confront your Mother & ask her why she doesn't particularly like you. Sure, it sounds easy here on the page but that boil, sadly, does need lancing. Why should you constantly live up to other people's expectations when they are not willing to live up to yours? You don't have to face this alone. I & many others here, I'm sure, will be looking out for you. All you have to do is PM/DM any one of us, if you need to talk. :-)
So there you are, my long lost sister. I think of Stephen Vincent Benet who wrote in his epic poem, "John Brown's Body" words to the following effect: "Mary Lou Wingate/As slightly built and as hard to break/As a rapier blade./Bristol's daughter and Wingate's bride/Never quite well since the last child died/But staring at pain with courteous eyes/When the pain outwits it/The body dies...:
The pain hasn't outwitted you. Here is a poem above and beyond what the "other" could ever come up with. Write it, girl. Rear your head back and howl at the moon, but do it in the way you do best: through poetry.
I am 257 days shy of my 80th birthday and also remember Benet's refrain in that poem referenced above: "This is the last...this is the last...."
Fortunately you should have decades ahead to sharpen your poetic skills, to learn how to see beyond surfaces, to go right to the heart of matters. You will find it, my young friend, because you are already there. Open your eyes to the gifts you have in great abundance. Thank whatever gods may be that you have a wealth of material, insights, complaints, joys, rapturousness to come. And remember this: that you can create magic through your words. You can create spells. You can create...YOU.
Big hug from the old guy wishing you every good thing.
The pain hasn't outwitted you. Here is a poem above and beyond what the "other" could ever come up with. Write it, girl. Rear your head back and howl at the moon, but do it in the way you do best: through poetry.
I am 257 days shy of my 80th birthday and also remember Benet's refrain in that poem referenced above: "This is the last...this is the last...."
Fortunately you should have decades ahead to sharpen your poetic skills, to learn how to see beyond surfaces, to go right to the heart of matters. You will find it, my young friend, because you are already there. Open your eyes to the gifts you have in great abundance. Thank whatever gods may be that you have a wealth of material, insights, complaints, joys, rapturousness to come. And remember this: that you can create magic through your words. You can create spells. You can create...YOU.
Big hug from the old guy wishing you every good thing.
