"Hey mom, I'm eleven"


My mom is one kind of a woman,
She seems so happy regard the distance between her soul and spirit,
My mom is one year older than yesterday but she is just, my mom.
I love telling her about my love life,
About how this monk keeps me insomniac looking at the stars, through the shining hostile glass of the night,
My mom just enjoys my bed time stories,
My mom is ...in her thirties.

Basically I'm twenty,
I'm ten years younger but I think she's 15 behind,
Not really as a human but as a ghost,
Yeah, my mom is a pretty ghost.
She's six down but miles up away,
My mom is much a complicated story heyy.

When the sun rise, her chest beat against her ribs, her heart slowly giving up, I was just four or maybe five or least if I was this nineteen, I would have gave her a quick CPR but I was out of breath even before her, but least sirens rose me but she was...gone.
So my mom is gone.

Top, loam, dark, muddy...her graved heaven breaking last of her ribs, piled with stones and heavy lies,
My mom remained silent.

Years passed with every ticking minute, I aged but since that saturday afternoon, she remained just...that much old, we had to recount but with new label, her birthdays died but birthed death anniversaries...sad, I lost count but how do I do that while every annual says I'm a year older as an orphan.

My mom is a monk I'm in love with,
, my mom, my beautiful endless pain.

#rest in peace mom
© Adelyn Moliepe