I wish my mother loved me.
I wish I had pretty words and beautiful prose to translate my mommy baggage, but I don’t.
Her absence still haunts me. I’ve tried telling people that she’s dead, but that finality doesn’t fit, seeing as she is quite alive yet painfully distant.
I don’t have pretty words to adequately describe how much I hate how this unfinished business lingers in my psyche. I’m tired of the merry-go-round; just when I think I’ve moved on from feeling cheated out of a healthy mommy-daughter relationship, it hits me.
I mean, if your mother doesn’t love you you’ve gotta be a pretty fucked up person, right?
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