letters to mother.

wretched.

i exist as the wretched form of my mother, as if she were gazing into the mirror. instead of finding myself, i find her.

i am the half eaten rotten heart on the dining table that my mother was full too finish. it lies on the dining table, forgotten about, i am made from it.

the daughter in me exists as the broken mirage of my mother’s dreams. she sees an unbroken her in me and proceeds to taint me too. mother, why are you pulling me under the water while Helios waits for me in the sky. oh mother, let me fly and be his Icarus.

some mothers,

and some daughters,

are not supposed to co-exist.

maybe,

we are one of those,

aren’t we,

dear mother?

i think as the hot water burns my hand for the umpteenth time while washing the dishes.

the china breaks in my hand, ichor seeps out, bright in colour.

i have been dishing out my grief like her. both of us are my father’s victims. i have been taking the anger out too, like her, on me. both of us are society’s victims. she’s an unlucky woman and so am i. both of us are victims.

i share my mother’s hands and she seems to love them. we share the same softness, the same knuckles, the same outline. she seems to love it. but her daughter shares her father’s nose and this intrusion haunts my mother.

i am my mother’s child, moulded by my father’s rough hands, filled with the same blood he forced out of her.

i love like her, i hate like her.

i am nothing but her distorted image, burnt at the edges by the flickering flames of her heart.

dear mother,

i can’t hate you for i don’t have the right to do so. but i do. i apologise. but i do. i can’t help hating you.

you and i, i and you, we are one and the same, made from the same wretched mould, we have the same outline. i share your hands, your eyes and your grief.

mother, i share your griefs too.

are you surprised? i am not.

in the end, we are one and the same. we exist as mirrors of each other.

mother, i have been dishing out your griefs, your sadness. mother, the anger in me is my father’s so why is the sadness yours? why couldn’t it be your resilience? why couldn’t it be his ignorance? stop making me the victim like yourself mother.

i pity you. your dear daughter pities you and your choked sobs. i pity your dainty hands, i pity your cheeks, i pity the body that has gone through hell, searching for heaven. and i pity myself because in the end, this rotten core of ours is same, isn’t it mother?

mother i don’t hate you, or at least i like to pretend so. but this love you give me is nothing but rotten leftovers that i am forced to steal while your eyes are shut. i am not deserving in your eyes.

mother, you ate my dreams, you chewed them and spat them in my face, just like your mother did, and maybe her mother and maybe her mother’s mother did. you turned me into a ragdoll and threw me around as pleased. i promise i won’t be a mother like you.

i scrutinise myself under the hardened gaze and pick at myself, a habit i picked up from you. i am detestable and unwanted in my own eyes. mother do you like me? because i don’t. i don’t like you and in the end, i am unable to like myself.

mother, i am unable to comprehend if you like me or not. your love suffocates me with a pillow, it renders me breathless and panting with tiredness. i’m tired of pretending that i love the way you love me. mother, you see me as your china doll, moulding however you want. i am rotting inside, i’m nothing but rotting flesh and you pick at me, unwinding me to the core. and when the core remains, you chew me and spit me out.

am i that detestable?

but mother, i love you, like the fire loves gasoline, the gasoline fuels the fire just how the mockery fuels the anger in me. i love you for who you made me into, a shell unable to feel anything for the rest of her adulthood, only to live a life full of regret in the old age. i love that you made me into you, a perfect copy of yours. we do not just share the same eyes and hands, we share the same core too.

mother i love you but i don’t like you.

(Image from Pinterest)