They slam the door before I finish my sentence. And I let them. Not because I’m weak, but because I remember being sixteen
By Elena Vale2 years ago in Poets
We didn’t always agree— on sleep schedules, screen time, or what love should look like on a Tuesday morning when no one had slept.
When days are dark I dream of Spring of fields lush with songbirds singing trees in bloom and flowers swaying A chorus with voice aplenty
By Matthew J. Fromm2 years ago in Poets
There was a time when I answered to one name— mine. Before “mom,” before the calendar filled with other people’s needs,
You don’t notice it at first— the quiet exit. It comes in small, almost-silent goodbyes. The day they stop asking for help with socks.
I thought I’d teach you how to walk, how to read, how to say “please” and “thank you.” But instead— I’m learning how to sit
We are not raising them to obey. We are raising them to question. To ask why the rules exist, who they serve, and what happens
You don’t always look at me when I speak. Your eyes are fixed on something just past the window, where only you can see it.
This is your kingdom— where applesauce is currency and glitter is law. Where socks vanish into portals beneath the couch,
You won’t remember the way I cut your toast into hearts every Tuesday. Or how I let my coffee go cold just to stay beside you
You are not mine to keep. Though sometimes, in the quiet hum of bedtime, I forget that. I tuck you in like I’m sealing up the world.
I was rocking my child to sleep when it hit me— I am someone’s baby, too. Somewhere, my mother remembers the weight of me in her arms,
