She took in the smoky air, trapped under a house made of madness.
Her work was nothing to them.
She feasted with herself, choking the pain.
A mother, mousy, yet jagged.
A father who heard things. Sick, and no answers.
With her soft, rosy complexion she was like a doll.
Inside, she felt she was a scar.
Ugly, and burdened.
She was the piece that cured others.
She held everything together.
I see her.
Perfection, resulting from practice.
Practice and
Failures.
She still washes.
She still serves.
She still nurtures.
She is not a scar.
She never was.
She still is the piece that holds everything together.
She holds me together.
My mother is beautiful. Joyous.
She is thankful.
She has built a life of balance.
Fairness.
I watch her, inhaling the pure air around her.
A sigh of relief.
This one is still my favorite. It the epitome of simplicity and emotional power, ultimately suppressed by abuse. I like that you can see very substantial characteristics of your mother, without having to be TOLD what she's like. It's perfect Kerri.
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