FOR MY MOTHER
I was born still.
My mother pushed me out and I was cold as the air I was thrust into, skin slimy and splotched with inky watercolour hues of purple and blue. They say I resembled the February sky of that night in my darkness, my frigidity. They took me away and brought my mind back, as it had been floating dreamily just above the blue steely husk, face towards the stars. I was in my body again, but never fully.
I think I got stuck like that, half in half out, the threshold of my body and just above, a place inbetween. Starry eyes and cold feet.
I was the only girl my mother ever had, so she clung extra hard to me. She didn't notice the cotton wool stuffing behind my eyes, a blockage between me and my body, but that never was her fault. She tried so hard.
My older brothers called me a changeling, said that when the doctors brought me back, that the devil had stolen the real me away, and replaced me with something empty. They only joked, yet when they said this at the dinner table over plates of overcooked carrots and tough cuts of meat my mother’s gaze dropped and the lines carving sorrow into her face deepened, and a part of me felt she really believed them.
My brothers possessed a vitality I lacked, where they were warm and inviting I was sharp and awkward. I never outgrew the harsh angles of childhood, so I stood bony and disjointed against their soft embraces.
My mother was the kindest to me. She sensed the emptiness that lived in my chest when she stood near me in a way none of the men in my life could. I remember the times she found me weeping silently, she cried too, and hugged me so hard I thought I might crack. I would let it happen, and then when the hollow inside of me exposes, let her tears fall in there. I can hold enough for the both of us.
Guilt licks its lips and swallows me whole.
I think back to that February night. Cold and still, mind and body. I can see it all happening, a room of all white (maybe I have slept too long and I am seeing heaven, or maybe the inside of one of the stars I faced.) My mothers youthful face dances and shimmers before my eyes, yet the hand that sketched it drew her pain in ink- it can't be erased. Hands on her heart, prayers on her lips, eyes to the stars. Her words float to the ceiling of the hospital room, hopeful like fireflies, but her heart is heavy. It drags along the floor, collecting dread as it goes.
My baby, my baby, I would give anything for you.
The words trip and tumble over each other, staggering like a mad woman. Maybe she is. Maybe I made her one.
The doctors took me away and brought my mind back, and she had made her sacrifice. Kneeled at the altar, spilled her own blood to preserve mine.
She gave her body and soul for another, for her daughter. Is that what it is to be a mother?
I cough up fragments of her bones. When they brought me back I licked my lips and swallowed her whole. Flesh and organs and bones. A mothers purpose is her child. What is the child’s purpose? To regurgitate her back up, patchwork her back together? Never fully whole again, always a part belonging to someone else.
Guilt is a man, how else would he be so good at taking?
He sits in the corner of my room, under the crucifix hanging from the wall. I look him in the eyes, and he licks his lips. My mother gave herself for me, yet I live in the spaces inbetween. How do I give her back? His teeth are bared, normal and human, and guilt is just a man.
I give myself to him, for my mother. He licks his lips and swallows me whole. Flesh and organs and bones.
Maisie Violet, 16, London - England ✯ IG: @kissesfrommais & fieldmouse555@icloud.com
“16 year old girl living in london, dreaming of being an actor, or at least doing something that will make others feel something, waiting for life to start happening. studying english, drama, and psychology at a level, but prefers learning about things at home such as history and fashion!”