dear mama,

i know it’s silly but i want you to be proud of me.

i want you to let me be free.

but i also wanted you to kiss the scrapes i’ve gathered along my knee.

why didn’t you answer to what i needed emotionally?

i didn’t ask for much at seven years old,

maybe for some cuddles and a blanket when i was cold. 

“you’re so selfish,” i’ve been told,

but i was the one in your hands, being controlled. 

then i started staying up late

to save your life,

at only age eight.

making sure you could dodge his throws of the kitchen knife.

it wasn’t your fault, 

but it sure wasn’t mine either.

i now realize i should not have been trying to save your life at age eight.

i should not have been making myself stay up late

to make sure he didn’t beat you to death,

hours after he snorted a snowstorm of cocaine and smoked pounds of meth. 

i couldn’t keep protecting you...

mama, 

i didn’t know how to comfort you,

i didn’t know how to help you,

i didn’t know how to save you,

all i know is that i tried, really, really hard.