My mother would tell you, I’m wild.

That I’m not quite ‘right’ and she thought she’d made all the best choices possible while rising me.

My mom would tell you:

 “He’s a bit strange, funny sometimes… Has a lot of potential- he’s wasting?”

She’ll tell you,

 “He is handsome. But, he’s never had a girlfriend. I have some questions and lots of doubt.”

My mom will tell you that I drink too much and that she worries about me living alone.

My mother won’t tell you that my wanting to live alone started in my youth- at times she could not stand the sight of me.

My mom wouldn’t hesitate to tell you she hated the only person that had the guts to call me a friend.

My mom will tell you, 

           “He needed to be more masculine- he is supposed to become a man…”

“As a child I hit him far too much…” 
Mom will probably forgo that detail. 

And there is so much more to be said:

“He’s far from perfect- much closer to dead.”

She never tolerated ignorance too fearful of the embarrassment. 

“He’s few times made me proud. Straight A’s was all I could count on.” She’ll say.  

“And I’m not sure of what he’s searching for, but help… I’m out of reach.” 

Mom and I don’t speak…

We’ve built a strong disconnection.

She won’t say she didn’t mean to place my sibling over me,

But, they were better.

She’ll tell you I wasn’t grateful, it’s likely I wasn’t- I was a child.

Mom will tell you she was- is the greatest mother. 

All-the-while hating being mine. 

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