This is the thing; I can’t lie beside anyone at night. I can’t live with anyone. I need to be in my home by myself for much of the day. I fear being touched. I fear hearing another voice and being forced to shuffle and come up with a name to match it. I want to go to movies I want to hang out. I want to go to lunch and to maybe talk on the phone from time to time but I don’t want a partner. I could never come to rely on anyone for anything other than friendship. Right now the dog and cat are outside the door waiting for me to be up to walking out there and having them climb all over me.I’m scared. I’m scared of my selves. I’m afraid that one of us will lead him on while the vast majority of us want nothing to do with him other than to hang out. I’m afraid to tell him what our disorder is. I don’t want to do this. I just need something to drink and to call it a night. I still have some tea left. Shesh, and I’ve not filled out my form tonight for the therapist. Shesh….
For a second I thought I heard my mother’s footsteps at the door. She doesn’t live here and she never, ever will. I expected her to open the door and tell me to go to bed. I’m 34 years old and I don’t live with her. I haven’t lived with her since I was 20 years old.
Me
Sometimes I Hate Mama
Sometimes I hate Mama
I hear her voice and a death cold chill rakes my spine
I wonder just how strong her hold is on my mind.
I have Mama’s hands and her face I see staring back from the mirror
When I laugh sometimes I think I hear her.
The reflection and tone wouldn’t be such a burden if memories of Mama were soft and sweet.
But what comes flooding back are details of blood, fear and sleeping in the streets.Sometimes I hate Mama
When I sit for a meal and look upon my platter
I am taunted by her proclamation, “You’ll only get fatter.”
If I did, it wouldn’t change a thing.
She wouldn’t approve of me either way.
Now I struggle with that truth on my heart
That Mama is not accepting whole or in part.
Sometimes I think I hate her.
Sometimes I scream it when I awaken suddenly and
When my face is flushed blood red
And I’m crying with a force stronger than a storm.
The wind will die and the rain will patter to its end
Slowly it trickles down my face, over my lips and to the floor,
Washing away all memory of her face.
Sometimes I hate Mama
Freeman/Austin
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