M is for Mommy.
M is for Mean.
M is for the monster
who told me I’m obscene.
She liked her drinks.
She liked her men.
She didn’t come home
’till God knows when.
I colored her cards.
I wrote her sweet notes.
She used her fists.
She used her throat.
“M is for mistake,”
she’d growl with a grin.
“M is for man,”
as she beat back my skin.
She skipped my shows.
She missed my days.
She passed out drunk
while I found ways.
Ways to eat.
Ways to hide.
Ways to hush the pain inside.
She moved out first.
Left me behind.
Sixteen and solo—
she didn’t mind.
She played house
with some new guy.
While I played grownup
and learned not to cry.
The books all say
M is for “Mommy.”
But mine was a storm
that wrecked right through me.
Now I wear heels.
Now I wear pride.
Now I don’t flinch
when the mirror meets my eyes.
I made me a home.
I made me a name.
I made me a path
from my own flame.
M is for making
a life she never gave.
M is for mourning
but not for her grave.
So sing your rhymes.
Go on, read your books.
But not every mother
deserves second looks.
Some build your wings.
Some clip your spine.
Some break your body
and call it “mine.”
But I am not hers.
I am not broken.
I am every word
she left unspoken.
M is for me.
The child she denied.
The storm she unleashed—
and the calm that survived.
