“I always did love you, just had too many problems.”
Ten words on ink and paper.
Handwritten by her.
Pierces my heart.
Does she know I exist? Or care? Or want me?
I love her, look up to her; want to be her.
Isn’t love also a verb?
I leave home. Searching for Mr. Right.
Run to him at sixteen. Happily ever after.
Young. Naïve. Taken for granted.
Thinks to mold me into his image.
His way or the highway.
Motherhood. Baby having babies.
Crawl before walk. Stumble. Fall.
Clinging unto a strand, unraveling.
Years overlap. Encumbering.
Emotions are numb.
Hubby seeks greener pastures.
Two-timer. Tosses me to the wolves.
Grown children look back.
Open arms. Nostalgic.
Rebuild the fences.
Dying to live.
Original poem by Mary A. Pérez