Hey, look! A revision! My teacher said that I should focus on showing the storm instead of using so many “I” statements. I’m not sure I like it… but that’s what revision is for! 😀
Feedback is welcomed and appreciated.
I am five.
Mother lies. I don’t know it.
Mother’s attention is my happiness.
There is no fear for she is the sun,
Beautiful and everything.
“You will be as pretty as me, one day.”
She speaks and I take her words as Truth.
I am thirteen.
Mother lies. I think it, but I do not believe.
There is a storm brewing,
Thunderstorms are not so scary, after all.
But I am haunted by a feeling.
Something is not right.
She asks questions.
A truth is offered, rejected.
She wants the truth but not the truth.
Hurricane Mother descends from nowhere.
Windows rattle with the force of the wind.
Rain slaps against the roof.
Thunder claps, deafening in its intensity.
A lie. There is a right answer.
A truth. There is no right answer.
I knew better. She taught me better.
No, she did. I did know.
Desperation. I’m not crying.
Please. Nothing is wrong.
The winds cease their shrieking,
The rain eases leaving only tear streaks behind.
Mother forgives and offers the comfort
of her embrace once more.
“I wish you wouldn’t fight me,
I only want what is best for you.”
She speaks and I cling to her words as Truth.
I am twenty.
Mother lies. I know it.
She knows it, too.
Trade a favor for a screaming session,
A request for a snide comment,
A reminder for an insult.
Nothing is nothing.
Sharp hailstones litter the ground.
What’s a little blood between family?
Cut my fingers and my heart will bleed.
Reinforce the roof, walls,
windows, and doors of my self.
Any moment now.
The storm is smiling.
Winds sharp and cold,
Strong enough to make me dizzy.
Rain falls in torrents, soaking, blinding.
Her storm leaves me scrabbling at sanity,
Only to have it plucked from my wet fingers.
Confusion, blindness, second-guessing.
It happened, no, it didn’t.
Memory unreliable.Give in.
The flood waters beckon me closer.
The waves will cease if I abandon what I know.
I fight to close myself off,
to board up the windows and doors
against the destructive gales and rising waves.
To escape. It isn’t enough.
There is nowhere to go and nothing to take.
Everything I own is hers.
There is nothing to do but batten down the hatches
and wait, caught in a never-ending storm.
Trade half-realized truths for a respite.
Hurricane Mother quiets but it isn’t over, yet.
“You never used to be so difficult.
I’m sorry that you feel the need to be like this.”
She speaks and I lie to fit her Truth.
I am twenty-seven.
Mother lies. I am sick of it.
Clouds gather sinisterly above my head,
and the hurricane surges forth.
Everything within me swells,
pulling away from the beach, into the surf,
Emerges a huge wave, a storm in its own right.
Howling and raging with years of neglect.
Every insult, every denial,
Every undeserved cruelty,
Crashing down upon the shore.
“Look at me! This is what you have made.
Look at what I have become to survive you.”
Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough!
She is forty-eight.
She does not speak.
She finally listens. She finally sees.
The rain softens. The hail ceases.
The wind stills and falls silent.
The hurricane subsides.
The clouds clear and everything can be seen.
“I am sorry.”
We speak and there is finally Our Truth.