Reverse Cacoon

Calming are the waves of the ocean of anger  that I willing submerse myself in when I paddle back the hours misery and return to our bottomless conversation.
Remember how you were drowning in disappointment, and my not yet resentful words sink like defective life rafts, we have lost ourselves in a storm of honest helplessness and confusion.

My defense  is the ugliest part of spring time. My values decompose. Parts of myself that you said seemed to fall from my identity like leaves from a tree . There they are sitting in the ground all winter finally molding and decomposing until they can nourish my roots and help me grow stronger. Roots that you refuse to recognize, you're stuck in your own visions of summer time, how could such a beautiful flower die like that? You look at me like I'm some kind of weed you want to pull out of your garden If our roots weren't so intertwined you might pluck me from the ground as if I didn't bud from you. A butterfly that looks like a moth.Our every encounter makes you wonder how I could emerge from metamorphosis like this. You do your best to build me another cocoon.  As if I believe the light in her eyes is the moon and I swarm around them until I they won't light up my world anymore. The world has grown cold and so have I.  How can I be killing everything about myself when I've been constantly stopping my own heart to breathe for you? How can everything that you taught me about my identity be lost when all I've been trying to do is find myself?

I bleed silent agony when I cut myself with the pieces of your broken heart. I cry as if I could heal myself with my own tears, or at the very least harbor my own feelings about what matters to me. Shouldn't I harbor you? Or was that ability one of the things  swept away by the waves of recreation that have caused my soul to erode so  demonically that sometimes we can't speak? If I called you every hour on the hour to say 'Mom, I love you," then might you realize how much I haven't lost sight of myself. 

What if I wrote a book about dresses of glitter and tea cups of butterflies? I would dedicate it to us. I would paint pictures of  cocoons and caterpillars only mentioning beautiful wings and how they grew. I would never mention the art of flight in case that offends you.  Would it heal your heart to know that I remember those things? What part of who I have become shames your maternity? Is it my belief in myself that cuts you the deepest? What did you want for me? Please describe your dreams for me in the the kind of detail that might allow me to stitch together a blanket of  accomplishments big enough to cover all the things you tell me you can't understand. I'd give it to you as a peace offering, warm up my heart and show you how the blood in my veins still runs an oxygen deprived blue and hope with all I have  that you could find a part of me that still believes in you.