by Nidha Khan
I hated Mother's day.
The floral cards, the balloons with My mother is the best! Written on them in bright pink paint.
I stare at the instagram posts on my phone,
Little girls with their mothers hugging them,
Mocking me with their love.
I cry on my couch with the lights off,
Imagining my head on my mothers lap,
I wonder how it felt, to have her heart to myself.
I asked myself what I did wrong,
Why I had to beg to be loved, when everyone else just had to be born.
I break my bones; bend them to make a new girl,
Maybe now she’ll love me?
I walk up to my old house; I’ll only stay for a few days mom,
I promise.
When the girls around me say, “I told my mother, she truly loves me” I stare at them with wide eyes and a gaping mouth.
So when some woman somewhere asks me why it matters so much that she loves me,
I tell her i don't know,
I tell her it’s complicated,
Just that my mother never loved me very much,
So it matters that everyone else does,
Even if they only love the version of me that exists when the lights come on,
And the director whispers “Action” in my ears.
Nidha is a teenage writer from India who truly believes that the best things to come out of humanity is literature and Taylor Swift. She dedicates most of her time to writing unhinged poetry and watching video essays about society. When she isn't stressing out about her college resume or binging Gilmore Girls, you'll find her organizing her Pinterest boards. She runs the Petrichor Gazette and is currently preparing to take her PSAT'S.