To the Mother I never had,
I watched you slump over the kitchen table with a long slim matinee smoking between your well-manicured fingers. Your hands always fluttering between mouth and cigarette. If you had payed attention to everyone as you did to your cigarettes you would have seen rainbows appear out of your storm clouds. Rainbows I would have given anything to bask in. Instead I basked in your self-hatred. There were times I felt that loving you, hating yourself, would stop my heart from beating. Still, I would have given my life to weave the frayed fabric of your heart back together. But my life did no posses the necessary magic that could have saved you. You were always softly outlined in pencil. You had no essence and the lightest touch rubbed you out of existence. I felt incapable of hugging you. I wished it had been different. I wished I could have seen you completely lit up: the sun shining on you face, and your darkest shadows always falling behind you unnoticed. I wish you could have found your peace, and in that peace, the people who always loved you.