"Do you want
To be cured?"
Shocking me
With the normalcy
In your tone of voice
By asking this.
As if
These clinics existed
To "cure" me
Of this disease
I have.
Like those
For alcoholics
And substance abusers.
Know
I answered back:
"Yes."
The question
Was asked
In total ignorance.
Then saying
In your next breath:
"You'll have
To pay for it
With your own money.
"I can't afford it
On a pension."
As if
I expected anything
From you.
Beyond grief
And open resistance
At my decision
To live my life.
As a woman.
Forever
Closing my life
As your eldest son.
Regardless
What you think
Or want of me.
Therisa © 2017
Author's note: The above conversation is part of a larger one, that happened on July 2, 2006, after my accidental "outing" of myself, to my mom, on Canada Day 2006 (July 1st). The first step. in declaring my independence, from her toxic influence, over me.
Have chosen Nightwish's "White Night Fantasy", to accompany this poem, because I love the song.
No comments:
Post a Comment