The World Is Too Full to Talk About

C'est tellement mystérieux, le pays des larmes
This morning I woke up detached.
I, rummaging inside my body, had no relation to the being I was
perceived and expected to be.
I washed my face and walked straight to the living room where my
mother, crouched and miserable, sat with my sisters
when we had a moment to our selves she said to me:
"when you went away last night, all night long I thought of going into
your room and looking through your things, finally I couldn't handle
my letting it go like that. I mean what kind of mother would I be? i
walked into your room and you were sleeping, quietly squeezing the
pillow. your face puffed the way it use to when you were five years old
and slept next to me. I felt terrible at the way things unravel, walked
out of the room and cried instantly"
it's such a mysterious place, the country of tears
I handled things with a frightening absence
at an instant I almost visited the country too but it did not feel worth
the trouble
I knew that however I was painted before in my mother's blurry mind's
eye I am not painted as such anymore.
it is painful to see someone hate themselves for the way you simply
are.
* * * * * * * * * * *
My mother is a world of it’s own
Walking narratives, I project the chaos of my inner civil war
Unto her flesh
I write poems about her because I cannot speak to her
Because I always cut through her inadvertently
Or out of necessity
And she sits quietly and waits for the blood to clot and dry
I have heard people say your mother never stops loving you
But a mother is an organic being which tires and sleeps
Aches and dies
I carry my mother inside my self
Ever since I was in elementary school, alone at lunch breaks
Crying at the thought of my self forcefully expelled from our home
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