My Mother

My mother-

she is more heartless than an artistic statue in a museum,

as cold as the snowflakes in December that will 

give you frostbites when you stick your tongue out 

during winter

she makes me question why am I so emotionally driven

she never sooth my back when I turn towards the wall

flooding my pillow with tears and I know she can hear

it drop by drop like she memorizes the rests of my heartbeat

when she rocked me in the cradle

she would never apologize after an argument

well, so do I but our scenes are like a paused sitcom

a resolved ending after every episode-

she'll always ask if I want to have a meal.

I've always thought that I don't belong in the family

although we have the same blood type

until I discovered her archives; journals and letters

and that was when I found myself

as a reflection of her,

and knowing her younger self is within me,

the answers that I hold to the questions that I ask

she never understands stanzas of poetry

but she wrote about her lover 

as he brought her back to life in every phone call

and they grew stronger every dawn

although the sun sets at different sides 

but even the sun can't cast away the rain

so did theirs, fade and failed.

she tells me their tales up to this day

and I can't help noticing how her face still beams 

the same 

and she still writes about him, on notepads 

like how I used to write about you.

she is a futurist.

that was why she let me break,

in hopes that if I learned about it earlier

it won't hurt as much as hers,

but I'm sorry, mom,

I'm equally stubborn,

I'll jump into the same pool and drown.