It’s a constant hum beneath the noise.
Grief threaded through the days.
Longing stitched into the hours.
But I’ve learned to fold it small,
tuck it beneath my ribs,
hide it.
Just to move,
just to breathe.

But sometimes
it rises up,
flooding the quiet I worked so hard to build.
It whispers my name
with a softness I still remember,
with the warmth I crave
from the mother I needed.

She’s not dead,
but I miss her.
Still.

Even after the damage.
Even after the chaos and the screams.
Even after the abuse.
Even after the silence.
And all the ways
she taught me to disappear.

Ashamed of my ache,
I carry it quietly.
This love that bruises,
and cuts so deep.
This longing that won’t die.
A lonely burden
no one sees.

And still,
a part of me wants to reach for her
just once more.
In hopes of seeing the real her again,
to finally feel seen by her.

And to be loved by her,
in a way I never truly got.