I wish I could heal you in all the places you hurt
But I just wouldn’t know where to start
I wish I could show you the depth of your worth
But how do you label art?
And even if I could find the words to speak
To describe all the things you deserve
I’d never be able to give them to you
Unless I conquered the world.
But if I could open my arms wide enough
To carry all the burdens you bear,
Or delete all your doubts, silence your worries
And bury your darkest fears;
If I could take you to places you’ve only dreamed of,
Or buy you the finest things,
Surround you with peace,
Erase your mistakes
And forgive every one of your sins.
If I could I would, I would do it all
Without a doubt I would do it, and still
It wouldn’t be enough.
I want to heal you in all the places you hurt
I want to catch every last one of your tears
I want to fill the silence you lie in at night
With all the things you needed to hear
I want you to know the broken pieces you hate,
Are the bits that make you divine.
Every curve, every scar and what you think are flaws
I promise, they are perfectly fine.
I want you to love every part of yourself
Even the corners you’ve learned to hate
Search deep within them, pick them apart
And realize that they are great.
Continue to rise when you’re at your lowest
You’re a queen in your own right
Boldly accept you’re a masterpiece
You are love, you are precious, you are light.
This poem was written for my mother a few years ago. When I’d penned the first draft, I thought to myself, “I’ll probably just delete it after,” as I often do with some of my prose and poetry. I’d taken up writing in my early teenage years as a venue of relief from stress and other burdens and my words were usually mine and mine alone.
But I showed it to her because I’d wanted to. I wanted her to know that I appreciated her in ways I could never before put into the right words. That though I hadn’t mustered the courage to tell her to her face, I had put together something she could instead read, though it would be no less sincere.
Mostly I wanted her to know that I admired her in the moments she found it hard to see the good in her self. I looked up to her strength and light in otherwise dark times and I supported all that she was.
I wanted her to know she was not alone in her corner and her battle did not have to be a lonely one. As much as I wanted to fight her grown up fight I knew there was little I could do. However, my words were my only tool and I so Iused them.
I came to her one morning, poem written neatly on a pretty purple page and presented it to her; not without expectation of course.
I waited with baited breath as I watched my mother unfold the scented paper and begin to read the words I had written to and for her.
She must have re read some lines or maybe even the entire thing, because it took longer than I first expected it would.
Inside I was thinking and overthinking, wondering if maybe somewhere between my intentions, thoughts and words, the message had gone askew and what I wanted to say was not what she had received. Or maybe...
Then she looked up, and I couldn’t decipher the look on her face, because the exchange was brief before she looked to the paper again and I wondered what she wouldn’t say.
“Thank you,” was all she said after a few moments and silence followed there after. I wasn’t sure what she was thanking me for, but I saw the tears she was fighting hard to contain. We hugged and she read it again.
There wasn’t much more to that exchange and it was one of the most emotional I’ve ever had with my mother since. We have never been an affectionate family. Our love does not follow the patter of the typical x’s and o’s. However there was no doubt about our love.
I’ve never been openly expressive in showing emotions and I still struggle with letting someone know what they mean to me.
My mother has always been and continues to be my greatest supporter and number one fan. In a crowd of negativity and naysayers she is the loudest cheer and I have always heard her loud and clear.
The least I could do is reciprocate with the same fervour.
As I write this tribute to my mother, years apart from my first, I wonder again what her reaction would be to these words.
Still I hurt for her and her seeming inability to believe in herself so I try to do so, twice as hard, to fill the spaces of her self esteem that remain empty.
I still wish she knew her worth and understood her value as mother, teacher, friend and as a basic human being. She overvalues the things she is not and undervalues what she is and in my eyes she is so much more than she gives herself credit for.
As I stand in her corner while she faces the world I can’t help but to think of how tiring it is to want to fight for someone when often I wonder if they even want to fight for themself.
Then I wonder how tired she must be, fighting a battle, a battle against oneself, unarmed and afraid. So I continue to stand with her. I do not know how else to show my support, I do not know how to offer forms of comfort or strategies for a win, but I can let her know she is not alone.
And I admire her more every day she continues to fight.
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