Our mothers literally build our hearts.
From a conglomeration of cells to a beating, breakable organ.
Building a heart is no violent act.
My mother built my heart from the safety of her womb.
But leave the womb and a mother becomes more.
More than a mother, she is a person.
As a person, she carries her own beating heart which has suffered the wear of trauma.
Our mothers build our hearts, but the world breaks them.
My mother built my heart and my mother broke my heart.
Because, more than a mother, she is a person.
Upon leaving the womb, the wear of my mother’s heart wore down on mine.
Her screams, threatening to take my life away from me reverberated through my bones, which in turn punctured my heart.
Her hand across my face left a heat that sunk into my soul, ripping through more of my heart’s remaining cells.
My mother built my heart and my mother broke my heart.
But more than a mother, she is a tailor.
With loving coos and steel words of support, she mends my heart’s wear.
For years, I refused to return to here doors for repairs.
I let my heart hurt.
My heart is more than just the hurt it feels. It belongs to a person. My person. It keeps me alive.
Now, I often find myself at her doorstep.
A person built my heart. A person broke my heart. But I let my Mother fix my heart.
My mother brought me to life.
My mother threatened my life.
My mother keeps me alive.
