blood stained reflection

the art of jabbing knives, is also hereditary

I’m not someone who writes diaries. writing has never occurred to me in bursts of emotion written down in a journal, somewhere I could keep all my thoughts safe and secret. I have always buried them within me, too scared to trust even the pages and ink that flicker before me. however if I look at the various times I’ve tried to keep a diary, a trend emerges. every time I did open that godforsaken diary to write down something, it’s always been about one person.

mother, if you knew the things I wrote about you, would you be able to look me in my eyes?

the woman who birthed me and who I owe my life to is also been my greatest muse. the first time I won a singing competition, our song was about mothers. an essay I wrote about her, was the one I won the first prize for. the first thing I thought when I heard my name being called out in the auditorium, was that I hope my mother will be proud of me. that I hope she reads this essay and sees herself through my eyes.

mother, I hope you never see yourself through my eyes

Hyatt Moore

twelve years old me first saw her as not just my mother, but as a person. a person who is going through life the first time, just like me. a person who once had her own hopes and dreams and a person, despite having lived for almost five decades, still hasn’t figured anything out.

mother, I wonder what kind of person would you have been, if you had not been bogged down by your reality. if you were to write your own story instead of having to start mine.

she often tells me, how she does not want to become like her mother; dependent, helpless, annoying. her entire existence revolves around trying to escape that path. I often think about how I do the exact same thing. how I do not want to become like her; lonely, unpleasant, sad. I often think about how the world is a constant cycle of daughters trying not to become their mothers. I often think about how disappointed their mothers would be to know that.

mother, do you know that whatever I write about, is always about you? the words flow like blood from my hands

drip

drip

drip

drip.

(I’ve never been good at dressing wounds)

it’s 5:36 pm and I feel shame (that I inherited from you) wrapping around me like vines. I can’t blame you for being the way you are, after all, all you’ve tried to do is to love me and make me the best version of myself. but the thing is, you never loved yourself and all you’ve done is take that anger out on me. I embody the worst parts of you and I crave the best parts from you. trying to understand you makes me want to pull my heart out of my chest but it’s all I can do. you’re all I have

you think of your mother and you’re 11 and seeing her as the worst person in the world.

you think of your mother and you’re 13 and she’s yelling at you for crying

you think of your mother and you’re 3 and asking her to lift you up

Karl Bryullov, The Last Day of Pompeii

being a daughter is wishing you could be who your mother wanted you to be. to be her salvation and solace. being a daughter is also knowing that try as you might, you will never be that. you will spend your entire life wanting to be the perfect child and you will never become one (and neither will you want to)

mother, I know you love me, but you don’t like me. and mother, I love you, but I can’t help but feel like my body will overflow with the dislike I feel towards you. that the blood in my veins will be replaced with the dark liquid of hatred. I hope you understand.

after all, you were also a daughter first.