Don’t leave momma. I beg her again. Over and over in my head. I was two when she set her foot out to work. The nanny would hover over me all day, feeding me, cleaning me, and i would go reach to her and she would turn her face away like i was some work on her to-do list that she cancelled every love i ached for. From my momma, who like always wasn’t there.
Mom, i silently tear myself from within every day you are not home cooking for me, helping with my homework, or talking to me about the world and the blaring tv that we both could have watched together. I was fourteen momma, and i let out tears again when my best friend fought with me and called me names behind my back. I ranted to you on call, minute by minute the details of it all, and after a minute and a half, all you said was, “sorry, darling. Can you repeat it again? I was arranging the papers.” I smiled through the little fissure in my chest and said i miss you, mom.
Don’t leave. I kept begging a hundred times. In a hundred different ways. You worked so hard to design a comfortable world for me, but momma i ached to sit beside you munching on popcorns and watching a movie on the home theatre that otherwise sits like a hammer on my head. Mom, on the sports day, all the parents of every child turned up clapping and cheering their children and i, i cowardly sat at the back too afraid to sweep my eyes through the stadium knowing there wouldn’t my name on anyone’s lips.
Mom, i turn eighteen today. I bet you forgot again. It is my birthday. And i have shut all the windows and locked myself in my room. My boyfriend ditched me yesterday because i was being too much of a nuisance to handle. I cried and cried soaking my pillow, the paper i tried writing on, and a dozen more tissues knowing that my own mother hadn’t had time to sort out my mess.
Sometimes mother, i blame you for flunking in my class tests.
I blame you for not having any friends.
I blame you for being a crying mess.
I blame you for all the people who have left me.
But blaming you is doing me no good.
I am eighteen, mother. And i will be the same when i am twenty.
Or thirty two.
Or fifty five.
I dont think i will ever be able to trust someone else with myself. They would run away from handling me too.
No, i am just a heap of withering petals that have never been a use to anybody.