My feelings are those that a degree man has yet to discover: Uncover, write a report, and burn it with a torch because I choose to feel what they write down as unreal, as they conceal in their journal notes with question marks.
So I beg to disagree that a man has more control over me than my own sanity.
An allusion to the notion you have proven through devotion to name the erosion that has been set in motion through this woman they expect me to be.
A mere robbery of life and soul as mother dear read the pregnancy test read ‘positive’ for her second and not yet final mistake.
Or maybe he didn’t because I don’t think you ever told him about me.
Just a memory of a reminiscent affair that ended abruptly, hurdling him into the abyss of paternal prohecy.
You left me wondering who found me clinging to your womb as you pondered abortion and decided on adoption.
A life without a spot in your arms, cold, not warm because I am not there to keep you strong.
I was with you for nine months too few. Why can’t I remember your words, “I love you” as you gave me away to a family who could never say those words better than you.
You’ve created a being, who in attempts at impressing you, has lost track of herself.
A never ending process of creating, mending, and ending every chance of knowing you.
So I keep waiting all these years for the day where you’ll reach out and tell me the great story of where you’ve been all these years.
And maybe since you missed it, I'd tell you my story. And then together we could imagine how it would've read if you had been apparent. And as a mother teach me to learn from your mistakes. And as a mother learn from your own mistakes.
But, as you aren't, as you didn't, and as you haven't --I'll be waiting to hear your story.
The one you didn't keep