My Mothers Sadness Is An Ocean Above Me.

My mother’s sadness is an ocean above me.

It is a murky sea i walk into each morning,

A little bit of my body disappearing with every step,

Until i am unable to tell where i end and where this tsunami begins.

Now, i open my mouth

— just a little wider than yesterday —

And i force the saltwater down my throat.

My lungs expand, they burn

— just a little bit more than yesterday —

And the raging waves become slow tides.

They roll over me soothingly

As my body sinks to the sea floor once more.

Tomorrow, i wake up.

My mother’s ocean is no longer there.

Yet,

My lungs ache,

They throb,

As a saline flood pushes against them.

🦋 If you get this, answer with three facts about yourself and send it to the last 7 blogs in your notifications (anonymously if you wish to). Let’s get to know the person behind the blog 🦋

Okay so,

1. Im a HUGE F1 fan (sideblog: @neptunescore), like i will discuss it with anyone and everyone not matter whether they themseleves like it or not.

2. I have a minor obsession with like, (idk if theres a specific word for it) but stuff like crocheting, knitting, embroidery, cross stitching. I have/wanna learn ALL of them.

3. Writing poetry really started as a joke, my [someone i know] wrote a poetry book and i just wanted to show them i could do it as well... ended up loving it, aand here we are!

Any way thats me!

No bc someone please tell me how to get everything back

This was literally my life

GUYS MY BLOG JUST RESTARTED ITSELF EVETYTING IS GONE ALL MY POEMS MY LIKES MY MUTUALS MY PAGE WHAT DO O DO

Im going to cry😭😭

GUYS MY BLOG JUST RESTARTED ITSELF EVETYTING IS GONE ALL MY POEMS MY LIKES MY MUTUALS MY PAGE WHAT DO O DO

Im going to cry😭😭

I am lost here,

In this land i call home.

My feet burn and blister from the sand they walk over;

My mouth twinges and stings from the air it swallows;

My body spasms and twitches from the heat it withstands,

And I realise once more:

I was not made for this.

For where is the subtle brush of grass that should greet my every step?

Where is the smoke my lungs were made to breath?

Where are the monsoons that should shower my skin?

Where are they?

I am growing desperate, now.

Each day a new petal falls off me,

A thorn growing in its place,

And I find I am more cactus than jasmine today.

I am 10. I ask my dad to write down his letters on a piece of paper I thrust into his face. He looks at me oddly, he complies. I am 10. And my hands ache and my fingers are sore, and the page has torn and ripped, yet I continue. My pencil has started to shake, it's lead has long blunted, and a fresh shaving of graphite covers the faded one beneath it, the once sharp curve of the 'B' disappearing under the layers atop it. I am 10. And I wish my dad shared more than just blood with me.