the stranger
my mother dislikes me because I’m strange
because I have this pen and it’s breaking my skin
its ink comes from my ears and pores
and I just can’t stop running my mouth
and even when I’m tired, my veins and
the tremor in my hand do it for me
I was my mother’s “easier birth”,
her last birth
I was her birthday gift,
born on the 2nd of March and her on the 8th
she used to tell me I came out of her
with a bow on my head,
that she always wanted a daughter
my mother thinks I’m strange because I can
name all the capitals and states,
every love story in contemporary American fiction
can tell you in 10 words or less why God
put me here on this Earth
and I can tell you right now that it wasn’t
to be a daughter
it was to be a shapeshifter,
a chameleon
my mother thinks I’m strange because
I can be whatever I want to be
because my words sting like my father’s and
I can’t keep things to myself
because I’m not afraid to roll the dice or be honest
I’m not afraid of you–people knowing
exactly who I am,
reveling in my vulnerability
my mother thinks I’m strange because
there is someone out there at least one
that sees perfection in me despite her opinions
my mother thinks I’m strange because I don’t care
don’t care if my partner is a trash man or a doctor
love is enough
she thinks I’m strange because
I love people I’ve never even met before
because being a daughter is not my calling
I was not raised to obey to sit
with my legs crossed and cry only alone in my room
in the shower or in bed
I was not raised to serve you just because
I raised myself to be a woman larger than life
with a gentle heart, a childless matriarch
a woman with choice
wise, careful, courageous
my mother thinks I’m strange because though
I am a daughter of a wonderful daughter,
I am also so many other things
she thinks I’m strange because I’m willing
to let my name die with all the others
to love who’s right here in front of me
and not create love or a child from nothing
everything I am is because my mother
thinks I’m strange
because after 27 years,
after sharing blood and a womb,
after your divorce, your new life and marriage,
therapy,
many addresses,
my scholarships and my degree,
finding Jesus,
forgiving you and keeping your name
in my prayers,
you’re still not so sure about me
everything I am is because after all of this,
I am still your bad daughter,
a stain on our family’s reputation,
our lineage of good women
a stranger in your home
after all of this,
my mother still can’t bear to see me,
understand me
even though she made my brain
and my heart with her body
