Mona

Side blog — main blog; @ramonasinacoma

instead of thoughts, this is for my art

Photography

drawings

poetry

journal entries

my singing

instrumental pieces

whatever I want to share

Humor me and view the world from my perspective for a minute

I’m avoidant I get it from my mum

She dreams of running away

From lovers who turn dangerously 

And a life she can’t escape

She sighs to me about strangers on the internet

And spies who follow us around

I’m melancholic I get it from my mum

She sits in her room and hides in her covers

Dreams of a world where you she doesn’t work

She cooks our dinners of chicken and lettuce 

She would’ve lived in a studio apartment 

if it weren’t for us

I’m always angry I get it from my mum

She wakes up raging, on the wrong side of the bed

She catches dust and yells about cleanliness 

Perfection is an endless pursuit

We will never meet her ideal child because the scores always changing

I’m always hungry I get it from my mum

Food is for energy, nothing more or less

Diets don’t exist only an infinite chase for skinny

Your body is a vessel that you’ll leave once you die

No point learning to love it in this lifetime

I’m mean and I could say I get it from my mum, but I know I don’t

Her remarks are sometimes snarky and sharp

But her words are laced in love

My mother is cruel

Every habit is disgusting 

Every sentence out of bounds

You will never match her image

She loves me but doesn’t “like” me

She wishes I never leave but can’t stand me around me long 

It’s always a question, 

Is that comment it out of love or a deep hatred for your birth?

I’m loving I get it from her

Every young child is her “baby”

She sees herself in every young mother

Her kindness is abundant in a way that mine just isn’t 

My mother and I, we are different 

Our songs are at different keys

And our Hearts are on a staircase 

If my mother is red then I am purple

I am far from her but if you look close you can see her in me

We are close like Sunday to Monday but far like Monday to Sunday

We fit like two puzzles made from the same pattern  but not the same image

My mum is complex

And hard to understand 

Or maybe I say that because she is my mother

I am her and she is me

We are connected through blood and the water from her womb 

I do not understand her, maybe I don’t want to 

A butterfly doesn’t dream of being a caterpillar?

A duck loves it’s mothers only for a short time

I yearn to know my mother like an apple yearns for its tree

And maybe this lack of understanding 

that was subtle foreshadowing

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