the smoke and haze of someone else's past caught up to me
and all of the people that hounded them for blood are asking
for my name all with their arms stretched out to devour.
no one is ever fond of time and none of us could know
if time is ever on your side
you see their sleeves rolled down and can't help but wonder
the hearts/tricks lined up under.
it is mother-like.
the anger, the affection, the lessons, the cruelity
all of a mother's innate traits.
i'll call my mother and ask for her time and nothing else
all because of blood.
my very own being, the lines, hers shed for me.
it is suffocating i can admit now but it is sinful
to bore thoughts that is mine and mine alone.
one without room for penance.
this womb does not make me one. i am the clock's kind of mother.
you could not understand grief the way a mother does unless you are one.
the pain of a sacrifice that wasn't welcomed so it's easier
for your own to throw you away, and for them to peer behind you
and think, "you were a shadow and failure of an upbringing from
your predecessor. you loved me in the way you were.
the things you could've been instead of bearing me.
pity, pity."
the whole picture is the pain. it hurts all the same on every single
place you press on. you look at them with sympathy, never in awe,
never in gratitude.
how arrogant, seeing that your inescapable mother, will make you
her.
time will make damn sure of that, love.
