To know my mom is to know myself.

To know myself is to know that in the same way, yet differently, we both told stories to pass the times.

Mama lied. While I told everyone the truth. While staying silent. Like a mime playing out my role in actions and deeds to express and shine in the world without Mama and yet with a unique price of her.

Made me feel like I was riding in some fancy made car body. So high tech. Only I understood how it worked.

I too was sick a lot. They called it appendix. And tonsils. I called it grief. Going through this experience has taught me how important a Mama is. Even if she’s gone. Dead or separated. She matters.

How could I even tell my new parents what I really wanted? How? Was I supposed to be honest about that? When the whole world was riding on the hope that I would not? Seems like a rigged race to me.

Yes. I’m radical. Like Mama could be.

Yes. I’m unorthodox. Like Mama never worshiped. Wild. Tame.

Yes. I’m adapted. Like Mama wanted.

Yes. I’m her daughter. Like Mama thought was changed.

Yes. I’ve come home to her many times.

Each time with love.

But if she wanted to fight about it? Well ok then we will.

Mama got what she wanted and now acts like she don’t want it? Woman.


Everyone else got first dibs.

It’s my turn. And be happy guys.

For Mama. She made a good one they tried to call bad.

Don’t tell me I don’t understand Mama. I made sure I did.

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