This post is part of a series called 100 Days of Poetry.
I am my own mother.
There has been a steady stream of ready I
have prepared for you. Of which, you have
never asked for.
I rehearsed the chorus so many times I
could sing it to you while you walked away
from me: effortlessly.
The key changes, the bass drop. The
instrumental solo in the middle of it all
(that’s you) and the prelude to the
devastating last breath of wanting
you to have everything