March 26th, Year of the Corpse

Spring births buds in mother’s brain, that open to reveal multi-colored depression. Wondrous hues, sparkling shades, hypnotic and entrancing. Trapped by complexities, imprisoned by weighty burdens. And just once, I would like to see her well. I would like to listen to her voice, free from the somber inflection.

Hers is an illness, an addiction, a dependency. She is defined and attached to what is killing her. It is why and how she relates to the world. Her identity was formed out of a sense of helplessness. There is comfort in victimhood. Why do something for yourself, when someone can step in and do it for you?

I do not want her as a mother, and am years past needing her. However, watching an unceasing self-destruction never stops being difficult. There is no room for interference, when you know your hand would only be pushed away.

March 26th, Year of the Corpse

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