worldsaway

Happy Mother’s Day, they say—
bright and soft and everywhere.
A celebration I was never taught
how to hold without breaking.

I see the photos—
arms that look like home,
smiles that feel effortless—
and something in me turns sharp.

Because those words don’t land gently.
They cut.
Quiet at first,
then all at once.

I hate her.

For the love that felt conditional,
for the moments that weren’t safe,
for teaching me that love
could feel like something to survive.

You don’t hurt people you love
like that.

And still—
somewhere I don’t like to look,
I love her too.

Which is its own kind of wound.

So when the day comes,
wrapped in gratitude and flowers,
I don’t feel sadness.

I feel anger.

Because a mother
is not supposed to be a wound—

and yet
that’s exactly what she is.