my mother was born on the day after christmas.
she tip toed, never one make a fuss,
as the world welcomed her with a whisper.
she’d fade into the background,
making herself a home out of it.
she even liked it there,
after a while.
but i was born on the tenth of july.
the sun kissed my cheek when we met.
bald headed and screaming.
i cried when i was hungry.
and i screamed for what i wanted.
sometimes i think,
sometimes i know,
motherhood wasn’t a song and a dance,
but a chain and a shackle.
and for that, i’m sorry.
