Motherwound

The last time I saw her, I didn’t know it was for good.

Her words came like a blade drawn slow, sharp with promise, dripping with venom only to ridicule me for believing in her threats. She spoke of endings, not with rage, but with certainty and the room became smaller, the air thick with her shadow. Fear took root in my chest, and so I ran.

I ran as though the ground might give away, as though her hands might reach through the walls to pull me back.

I didn’t know I’d never return. I didn’t know I was running not just from her but from a lifetime of cruelty disguised as home.

In the aftermath, she sent her fury to follow me.

Her sickness — a phantom lie meant to taunt me.

Her letters — daggers of ink meant to cut me from afar.

The years unfolded, but her rage did not dim. It seeped into the cracks of my life, a poison that found me in the quiet. She ruined me where she could: my name, my peace, my unsure sense of self.

She turned the world into her accomplice, invisible hands pulling the strings of my ruin.

Now, nearly eight years have passed, but she lingers still, a ghost with claws that never loosen their grip. She sends whispers through strangers, keeps her eyes on my every move.

She does not understand peace

and so she cannot allow it for me.

— Lux