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I lie, staring blankly at the ceiling. The memory of her hand gently caressing my face fades into the misty half-morning light. I fade with it. Sway of back, arch of breast echoed in each tear that trickles slowly down my pale cheeks and tumbles unwittingly into oblivion. I wish I could tumble with them. The whitewashed sky folds its suffocating embrace around the skeletal trees–and I exhale.

Another day.

I sit and I think, as I seem to do every morning, over my coffee. It’s been seven years I’ve been here.

Seven long years.
What have I done in those seven years?

Mostly, it would seem, I have wasted them. Created more problems than I have fixed.
So I sit, watching another mourning pass me by and wait for something to come to me.

It doesn’t.

I think about writing my life, but I laugh.
There are already a million books of a million lives like mine.

So I was abused my whole life. So I should be dead.
I don’t think I’m best seller material. I’m just another broken mirror, another shattered window.
Discarded and useless.

The sky is washed out, pale, hugging the trees fearfully.
I am scared. My past isn’t so far away and the future is too many tomorrows.

Today … today is washed out and pale,
and I hug my knees fearfully.

Self–Portrait

Protruding and unspeakable, pallid porcelain peninsulas
Rising domed and cherry-topped.
Gentle slopes fading in the smooth white ocean of flesh.
Some, hot and hungry, devour these sweet rounded handfuls of shame,
Oblivious to the spider web scars, a road map of mistakes made,
Battles won, innocence lost.
Twin confectionaries rebelling against the passing of time,
Sugar-sweet soufflés destined to deflate and disintegrate.
Disarming in their softness, arched peaks puncture my girlhood
Unmercifully and yet, so deliciously.

Follow. Breeze tumbled leaves rustle a name. Follow. Dried up years clank heavily against the iron gates. Always follow. Do as I say and not as I do and always follow. Another whispered word slithers silently by, skin cracked and dry from lack of use. When will it rain, grandmother? The old woman raises her unseeing eyes to the obsidian sky and cackles. The rocks flinch and the unspoken words hurry away. Too late, little girl, too late.

Dawn breaks like a thousand mirrors, but still no rain. The unused words lie weeping at her feet. She sits now, motionless among them. She used to know what they sounded like; words like love and I and happiness. But no one really spoke them anymore. they just nodded to one another, soundless passing of spirits.

Another day without rain.

Another song without words.

I awake with upturned palms aching and empty. Swollen eyes. Hollow belly. You’re gone again, faded into the washed out morning light. The curve of your breasts, flick of butterfly fingers straightening flyaway hair: all gone. Tears glisten feebly on gasping open hands. Dew crying its last breath in raging summer sun. Silence echoes, grey sky breaks, and still I wait unmoving. Semi-conscious, I hear your voice, falling like gentle summer rain. Memory slithers through the cobwebbed corridors of my mind soundlessly, inching after the barest scent of your being. I awake with upturned palms aching and empty. Swollen eyes. Hollow belly. You’re gone again, gone for good. Sunlight burns my bones and screams indecent declarations of life at my bruised and battered soul.

I mourn you as I mourn the mother I never had. Both unattainable. Both ensnared behind a barrier not of my making. No matter what I change, what I do, who I am, this child will have no mother. This child is not a child. Her cries echo in the loneliness of the night and are comforted by the blank stares of a faceless moon.

“I am not your mother”

The words tumble like rancid cockroaches and break into a hundred unnamed pieces. I have been broken for the last time. All the Kings horses and all the Kings men can’t put me back together again. It’s over now. Too old, too old to be a child, a daughter; too old to be loved. Palms remain cracked and empty forever now.

I just can’t believe it couldn’t be you. Even though I always knew it to be the truth. I gave you my heart in a basket, hoping yet knowing. Sure enough, you stuck a Band-Aid on it and gave it right back and said,

“I am not your mother”

copyright memoryofmoving 2007