Mother Told Me
a poem
I was always told I’d be a great mother. I have a knack for loving things more than myself. I’m gentle. I can’t even kill a fly. I am patient and generous. I was always told I’d be a great mother. So I had a daughter and named her Despair. I nurtured my sweet Despair, gently learning to understand her. I was always told I’d be a great mother. So when others heard the word, they flocked to me, asking me to shed my maternal love on their despair too. With open arms, I accepted. One on top of the other, their despair flooded in, beginning to block the view of the door on the other side of the room. I was always told I’d be a great mother. So I didn’t let go. I made room for it all, expanding the width of my wingspan until my body began to ache. Covered in despair, I lost sight of my own. My sweet Despair must have slipped through the cracks of my fingers while I was carrying the rest. But I knew she was strong— she was made from me, and look how much I could carry. I was always told I’d be a great mother. But the crippling weight became too much. Cornered in the room, all of their despair began to suffocate me. My arms gave out, and I dropped it all, gasping for air. All their despair scattered across the floor, scrambling back to who it belonged to without hesitation. As if I hadn’t just strained my back from all its weight. As if I hadn’t just strained my heart from all its gluttony. In the distance, my sweet Despair sat crouched and neglected facing a closed door. I was always told I’d be a great mother. But I abandoned my own sweet Despair. The only one I was obligated to protect, the only one I needed to love, my own blood. I was always told I’d be a great mother. But then again, my mother used to tell me: don’t always believe everything you’re told.