neembu

what the heck is a sissypuss

I’m in my bedroom, trying to force myself to fall asleep, submerged by thoughts swirling around in my head. I silently curse at myself as I hear my mother stomping in the kitchen, slamming every cabinet door she closes, huffing and puffing while mumbling under her breath, something about how “No one does anything in this house,” and I’m left to whisper “I’m sorry,” repeatedly. I know she won’t hear it; I barely do, myself. However my apologies aren’t for her to hear, necessarily. I think they’re more for myself, in the future, as a mother of my own, succumbed to the responsibility of the mistakes made by the others living there, to which I’ve been implicitly bestowed upon to tend to. And why should she or I be put under that restraint? Perhaps I’m not apologizing to her, but to my future daughter who will be lying awake at night, writing this same poem here, silently wondering if she is the cause of her mothers anguish, engulfed by guilt, and dreaming of a better fate for her own daughter, as the cycle repeats itself and the stars slowly fall, in view of another day.

the tortured poets department

this essay shit is so easy