#i hope you didnt treat me like im a rotten and discarded flesh of you

[apocketfullofpoesis]

A poem is brewing in my ribcages. A moment allows a deep revelation. Paperwork; a touchstone for testing patience. More deaths will lead to more paperwork. It's never the right time. I'm never brave enough. Mother, how do you lie? You raised a daughter in your own image. How do you not recognise her anymore? How do you find her selfish? Strategic. If I tell you the tragedies I've been through, you'd laugh at yourself for being a fool. For overestimating me. You'll give me new names. You'll call me dumb. Strategic? You flatter me and you've no idea. The more you make it clear that you don't know me even a little bit, the more you're losing me. It's a proud loss. You owe me a fair play. You owe me an unfiltered display of affection. You owe me manipulation free motherhood. You owe me, me.

But you're a beginner at recoiling. I'm glad my father taught me to be grateful; to own up to my follies; to face being wronged and yet fix things by giving in first. As for you, you cannot hide your embarrassment in making things up. You're ashamed to realise a parent can be wrong because it's your first time either. You're ashamed to feel apologetic and so you do what you've always done. You play me. You try to turn the dutiful, lap-dog daughter switch on, so that you can keep her wrapped around your finger and use her as you like and break her again and leave her be, only to start missing her camaraderie and lift her up again. My tragedy is that i happily surrender every single time. And i wouldn't want it any other way. Love has always found me in places I'm scared to go. Love has always chosen me when I would be least expecting it.

The poem is reaching the paper. It is escaping your finger, mother. In twenty years, when my daughter asks about you and me, it will reach her too. How far would you lie then? How far your youngest ought to play the biggest heart and keep shut? How far would you keep lulling neglectance to sleep as your daughter looks for you? How far do I need to keep my blurry eyes down in order to obey you? How far would you keep feeding yourself with a false image of me? How far would you not recognise me? Because I'll raise a curious daughter with a loud mouth and observing eyes. And she'll want to know.

Garima Tripathi, from How Far Mother?