Idling my time

Knowing you’re unwanted is a prickly sensation.
There lay thorns at every corner; blades dig at every turn. My path, riddled with holes.

The world my mother molded for me left an odorous hue. Dense, all encompassing. The murk often blinded my eyes from finding an escape through her fissures— lined of loneliness and retraction, where her glimmer was intermittent at best.

The voice my mother left for me narrates her vibe as detached and selfish. Her crooked lips, up slightly to one side, painted her mouth in a perpetual smirk. Her grimace hid the baggage of her own misgivings. Her frown lines were narrow like her love.

The self-esteem my mother wrought for me was intricate and brittle. Shavings of glass form complex channels of emotion, winding in the labyrinth of lack and need. Placing anxiety at every doorway to let in when it’s inconvenient.

I never learned how to trust. My early years were so clouded with mixed messaging that I had trouble deciphering any of it. Jaded by the blood of my own— it left a bitter taste in my mouth. I’ve done plenty of healing but I am left with the question of why.
Why bring a child into this world that you do not want?
Why raise her in rags in a den that is venomous— where the snake bites are cyclical. Day in. Day out. I had no protection. Those rags, so threadbare.

Tears wet these grains of my hourglass; idling my time in these moments for far too long.