Morning Greets Me
Each morning greets me differently;
she kisses my cheek for love, or
spits down my throat for some other reason.
I used to hate her obnoxious light.
When I was a child I threw sticks
at her and swore I would do myself
in before she could. I made rope from vines
that her sun rays grew. I gathered
poison that lived on her sickly Earth
and piled them next to my bare toes
as they dug deep through the planets
I think I sat in this spot, with my back toward
her for years on top of years.
She burned and blistered through my anger,
but I couldn’t see.
Until, one morning, my daughter greeted me,
sat softly next to my feet and reached deep into
the pile of poison
that I’d been saving for me.
Posted on May 12, 2014, in Poetry and tagged anger, anxiety, Awareness, Borderline Personality Disorder, dark writing, daughter, Depression, family, forgiveness, human condition, journal, letting go, life, Literature, Mental Health, mother, pain, parenting, poetry, poison, Relationships, sadness, Self-harm, self-inflicting, self-medicating, suicide ideation, Sunlight, writing. Bookmark the permalink. 7 Comments.