The long slow process of mourning the childhood I never had
Glimmers of deep pain shining up from the mouth of someone
As they talk to their mom
The mom says all the right things
My brain whispers “if only someone had said those things to me as a child.”
Some people say “no one comes out of childhood unscathed”
But what if scathed is third degree burns
What if these are your wounds
The fluids of your tears
Filling every crevasse
Instead of reconciliation/love
Just a sweet sore spot, like a cavity
That stings when you bite down
Except instead of biting you are hearing others talk about mom and dad
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