I could sing her a song, I could write her a letter, I could express my rage to her for the millionth time. But what’s the point? No, none of those options would suffice. They would all express a list of complaints I have shouted to her all my life that have been dismissed. I want to understand her. But she’s remained an enigma in my life for 17 years, and overtime, she’s gotten more confusing. Isn’t that ironic though? I came from her womb, so I am a part of her. I’m an extension of her. So in a way, since I can’t understand her, I won’t be able to understand myself. 

I was produced in a sick womb. The virus had infiltrated my system before I was even fully birthed. Neither one of us came out whole after our 9 month union. It’s amazing how she’s mothered me. She led me to be independent, a leader, but fearful. A woman who takes no shit but is still bound and surrounded by strict rules. I’ve taken on many roles in hopes of her giving me freedom. I’ve been the diplomat, appearing poise and put together. I’ve been the sergeant who displays assertion and confidence. I’ve been the meek, quiet mouse who didn’t make a peep.  

Of course, none of the roles worked. She remained a watchful hawk who noticed my every slight movement. She noticed if I moved the fork on the table every so slightly and each new pimple addition to my face. Without a doubt, she’s the most observant person I know. She’s able to notice any move I make, but she doesn’t seem to have a damn clue of what I’m thinking.