They say Mothers protect
their (was I ever)
young; instincts of mammals,
creatures that seek warmth (how old
will I be when the
shivering stops?). Instead, You fed
me to Him,
prey
on the altar of appearance,
thrust forward, the back of me a target, Your feeding
frenzied hunt
for perfection,
carrion.
What would you tell your younger self if you could?
In what ways do you view youth as positive or negative?
What makes you feel young?
Too much weight, too much on my shoulders; before I sat to write this prompt (I hadn’t remembered the order of the words; it caught me off guard) I’d been feeling the sense of having aged deeply, and alongside it, the hesitant tremor of childhood, no influence, no standing, no power, no voice. Feeling raw and uncertain. These words came out ugly. I’m not particularly pleased with the quality of the creative output.
And it’s possible some of my anger and fear are misplaced right now; there are other dynamics feeding those emotions at the moment. But there were so many years when it wasn’t safe to feel these things at all, let alone express them. So it lands where it lands, and how, because this is just where I am, in this moment. And I promised you that. I promised myself, too.
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