My mother threw out my poetry
when I was fifteen,
just like that,
no apologies
given.
She made sure
that the trash truck
ground-up all my emotions
in all those lined pages
of a marble composition notebook.
She wanted to prevent me
from writing down
all my romantic notions
and teenage secrets.
She believed nothing good
could come of telling the truth,
and that expressing pain
and vulnerability
were dangerous.
It’s better to contain
misery and disdain
in private, she said.
Then you won’t get hurt.
That was when I lived at home,
now I don’t have to suppress
what I feel anymore
or be so overly protected.
I’m free to fill up as many
marble bound notebooks
with poems of blood and tears
without being taken
from a mother in fear.
©️mft
