Dear Mama - ✌🏾
Dear Mama,
I hate that you can still reach me.
Not with your hands
those stopped knowing me years ago.
Not with your voice
I’ve learned how to let that pass through me like weather.
But somehow
against all reason
against every boundary I built with bloody hands
you still know how to find the little girl
I buried beneath the woman I became.
I resent that.
I resent that after a lifetime of your absence
my heart still arrives before my mind can remind it
that you have never been who I needed.
What angers me most
isn’t that you hurt me.
It’s that you continue
to be exactly who you’ve always been.
Time softened your face,
but it never softened your nature.
The years gave you wrinkles
not wisdom.
You grew older
a little lonelier
a little more curious
about why your children orbit you
like planets refusing gravity.
You wonder why our conversations
sound more like obligations than home.
You wonder why birthdays
holidays
and ordinary Tuesdays
feel quieter now.
You wonder
why every child you raised
learned how to leave.
Then you tell me you love me.
You say it so often now
that I almost laugh.
Love.
Such a beautiful word
to arrive so late.
I don’t think you’re trying to convince me.
I think you’re trying to convince yourself.
Because loneliness has a way
of translating regret into affection.
You don’t miss mothering me.
You miss having access to me.
You want me to absolve you.
To look at your empty afternoons
your unanswered phone calls
the silence you’ve inherited
and tell you none of it belongs to you.
You want me to take your guilt
and wear it
the way I wore your neglect.
But I can’t.
I buried that version of myself
years ago.
Still…
Every now and then
she knocks.
She asks questions
I can never answer.
What would’ve happened
if my mother had been gentle?
What would’ve become of me
if love had lived in our house
instead of survival?
Sometimes
I let myself imagine you differently.
Not because I believe it.
Because grief is strange.
It keeps creating impossible futures
for a past
that already happened.
Then reality returns.
And it reminds me
that some people
simply do not possess
the language required
to love without wounding.
I know your story.
I know who raised you.
I know pain
didn’t begin with you.
It arrived long before your name
and found a home inside your bones.
I understand.
But understanding
has never been the same thing
as permission.
There comes a moment
when every wound
stops being an explanation
and starts becoming a decision.
You reached that moment.
Then walked right past it.
Every morning
you wake beside the same ghosts
set them a place at your table
and wonder why they never leave.
Me…
I got tired of feeding mine.
Do you know
what it does to a child
when her mother becomes
the first place she learns
she is too much??
and never enough?
Do you know what it means
to spend your childhood
auditioning
for the role of daughter?
Trying to earn
what should’ve been given freely.
Smiling harder.
Achieving more.
Shrinking smaller.
Loving louder.
Only to discover
the finish line
was painted on water!
You were the first woman
to break my heart.
Not my first girlfriend.
Not my first betrayal.
You.
You taught me
that the people capable of creating you
can also convince you
that you are impossible to love.
You were my first lesson
in abandonment.
My first education
in disappointment.
My first funeral.
Because I mourned you
long before death
ever learned your name.
I grieved you
while you were still walking through the house.
Still laughin
Still breathin
Still asking me
what was wrong.
As though the burial
wasn’t happening
inside my chest.
That’s the kind of grief
people don’t talk about.
The kind with no obituary.
No gospel songs
No flowers
No condolences
Just a child
forced to become her own mama
while her mama
is still alive.
You became a ghost.
Not because you disappeared.
Because every time I reached for you
my hands closed
around memory
instead of presence.
You haunted every version of me.
The girl who needed you.
The teen who hated you.
The woman
who kept trying
to stop needing both.
Sometimes…
I still ache.
Not because I want you back.
Because somewhere inside me
lives a little girl
who deserved a mother.
And every now and then
I hear her crying.
Not for you.
For what never was.
I hope one day
you understand
how much weight
you placed on my shoulders.
How many years
I spent confusing strength
with survival.
How close I came
to believing
your version of me
was the only one that existed.
But I know you won’t.
Self awareness
has always asked more of you
than you’ve ever been willing to give.
Still…
When you look at me now,
I see it.
The distance.
The longing.
The quiet recognition.
You know
you can no longer reach me.
And maybe
beneath all your excuses,
beneath every story
you tell yourself…
you know why.
I could have become
so many things.
I could have inherited your bitterness.
Your hunger for attention.
Your habit of bland ass apologies
for accountability.
I could have carried
every unfinished piece of you
into my own life.
Instead…
I chose
to end the cycle.
Out of everything
this beautiful world
offered me to become
I chose
to become
a woman
who would never make a child
feel the way
you made me feel.
That is the only legacy
I ever wanted.
And then…
You made me cry.
For a fleeting moment,
I wasn’t 30 something
I was 7
Still waiting
for a mother
who was never coming
Thank you.
Not for the tears.
But for reminding me
why I left.
Those were the last tears
youll ever borrow from me.
This is where
your story ends
inside mine.
You are no longer
a wound
I keep reopening.
No longer
a prayer
I keep repeating.
No longer
a door
I keep standing outside.
You are simply
the woman
who gave me life.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
So today
I bury you
one final time.
Not because you died.
Because my hope finally did.
And hope
when it has suffered long enough,
deserves a funeral too.
Goodbye Mama.
This time…
I won’t mistake card board cutouts
for love.
Because at last
I no longer believe
in ghosts.
I hate that you can still reach me.
Not with your hands
those stopped knowing me years ago.
Not with your voice
I’ve learned how to let that pass through me like weather.
But somehow
against all reason
against every boundary I built with bloody hands
you still know how to find the little girl
I buried beneath the woman I became.
I resent that.
I resent that after a lifetime of your absence
my heart still arrives before my mind can remind it
that you have never been who I needed.
What angers me most
isn’t that you hurt me.
It’s that you continue
to be exactly who you’ve always been.
Time softened your face,
but it never softened your nature.
The years gave you wrinkles
not wisdom.
You grew older
a little lonelier
a little more curious
about why your children orbit you
like planets refusing gravity.
You wonder why our conversations
sound more like obligations than home.
You wonder why birthdays
holidays
and ordinary Tuesdays
feel quieter now.
You wonder
why every child you raised
learned how to leave.
Then you tell me you love me.
You say it so often now
that I almost laugh.
Love.
Such a beautiful word
to arrive so late.
I don’t think you’re trying to convince me.
I think you’re trying to convince yourself.
Because loneliness has a way
of translating regret into affection.
You don’t miss mothering me.
You miss having access to me.
You want me to absolve you.
To look at your empty afternoons
your unanswered phone calls
the silence you’ve inherited
and tell you none of it belongs to you.
You want me to take your guilt
and wear it
the way I wore your neglect.
But I can’t.
I buried that version of myself
years ago.
Still…
Every now and then
she knocks.
She asks questions
I can never answer.
What would’ve happened
if my mother had been gentle?
What would’ve become of me
if love had lived in our house
instead of survival?
Sometimes
I let myself imagine you differently.
Not because I believe it.
Because grief is strange.
It keeps creating impossible futures
for a past
that already happened.
Then reality returns.
And it reminds me
that some people
simply do not possess
the language required
to love without wounding.
I know your story.
I know who raised you.
I know pain
didn’t begin with you.
It arrived long before your name
and found a home inside your bones.
I understand.
But understanding
has never been the same thing
as permission.
There comes a moment
when every wound
stops being an explanation
and starts becoming a decision.
You reached that moment.
Then walked right past it.
Every morning
you wake beside the same ghosts
set them a place at your table
and wonder why they never leave.
Me…
I got tired of feeding mine.
Do you know
what it does to a child
when her mother becomes
the first place she learns
she is too much??
and never enough?
Do you know what it means
to spend your childhood
auditioning
for the role of daughter?
Trying to earn
what should’ve been given freely.
Smiling harder.
Achieving more.
Shrinking smaller.
Loving louder.
Only to discover
the finish line
was painted on water!
You were the first woman
to break my heart.
Not my first girlfriend.
Not my first betrayal.
You.
You taught me
that the people capable of creating you
can also convince you
that you are impossible to love.
You were my first lesson
in abandonment.
My first education
in disappointment.
My first funeral.
Because I mourned you
long before death
ever learned your name.
I grieved you
while you were still walking through the house.
Still laughin
Still breathin
Still asking me
what was wrong.
As though the burial
wasn’t happening
inside my chest.
That’s the kind of grief
people don’t talk about.
The kind with no obituary.
No gospel songs
No flowers
No condolences
Just a child
forced to become her own mama
while her mama
is still alive.
You became a ghost.
Not because you disappeared.
Because every time I reached for you
my hands closed
around memory
instead of presence.
You haunted every version of me.
The girl who needed you.
The teen who hated you.
The woman
who kept trying
to stop needing both.
Sometimes…
I still ache.
Not because I want you back.
Because somewhere inside me
lives a little girl
who deserved a mother.
And every now and then
I hear her crying.
Not for you.
For what never was.
I hope one day
you understand
how much weight
you placed on my shoulders.
How many years
I spent confusing strength
with survival.
How close I came
to believing
your version of me
was the only one that existed.
But I know you won’t.
Self awareness
has always asked more of you
than you’ve ever been willing to give.
Still…
When you look at me now,
I see it.
The distance.
The longing.
The quiet recognition.
You know
you can no longer reach me.
And maybe
beneath all your excuses,
beneath every story
you tell yourself…
you know why.
I could have become
so many things.
I could have inherited your bitterness.
Your hunger for attention.
Your habit of bland ass apologies
for accountability.
I could have carried
every unfinished piece of you
into my own life.
Instead…
I chose
to end the cycle.
Out of everything
this beautiful world
offered me to become
I chose
to become
a woman
who would never make a child
feel the way
you made me feel.
That is the only legacy
I ever wanted.
And then…
You made me cry.
For a fleeting moment,
I wasn’t 30 something
I was 7
Still waiting
for a mother
who was never coming
Thank you.
Not for the tears.
But for reminding me
why I left.
Those were the last tears
youll ever borrow from me.
This is where
your story ends
inside mine.
You are no longer
a wound
I keep reopening.
No longer
a prayer
I keep repeating.
No longer
a door
I keep standing outside.
You are simply
the woman
who gave me life.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
So today
I bury you
one final time.
Not because you died.
Because my hope finally did.
And hope
when it has suffered long enough,
deserves a funeral too.
Goodbye Mama.
This time…
I won’t mistake card board cutouts
for love.
Because at last
I no longer believe
in ghosts.
