From Mo To You

HOLDING my hand used to be every time we went out together. You gave me a fresh start; you were this flower of a body, this poem of a life... And sometime later in this life of mine, all your Mama's going to be able to give you back is this crumpled old shell, this liver spotted face of a mask hiding what lies undulating gently beneath - a blemished, scarred and fractured soul tired of tasting nothing but bitterness but afraid of straying away from pain, because at some point in time I realized that when you have nothing else to tell you that you're still alive, that you're still breathing despite no longer having any reason to. And angry. Yes, angry. Angry, at myself, for just not being able, anymore.

At this point in time, I turn to you, my child, you who yet relies on me with the ease of taking things for granted, because your heart has never had to be picked off the ground in bits and pieces then glued back  together so it looks quite the same but has definitely changed. Because even though I try to let you feel and taste and touch and smell the world you have not really seen what kind of world it is. And so I ask you now, maybe because I want to have the luxury of being selfish for just a moment, today, and ask you in that voice you surely find annoying, leaning towards you in that way you surely find mere pretending: "Are you going to be around, when I can no longer stand by myself, to take my hand, hold it tight, and not let go?"