The next time I am born, I want it to be to a mother that does not resent me. Sometimes I can see her, in my minds eye. I wonder if she is out there somehow, seeing me. It would be wonderful to not be so alone.
She smells of topsoil and rainy sidewalks and night blooming flowers. Her hands will be soft and strong, but never hurting. She will smile when she sees me and I will be welcomed into a warm embrace.
She will have shared memories, and will have cried at my wedding. She will have never forgotten my birthday and always remembered my favorite color.
She will be kind and fair, she will accept me for who and what I am. We will cook together and laugh.
She will hold me at my lowest and encourage me away from my failings. She will be there when I wake up from surgery. She will tell me things are going to be okay, even when the sky is falling.
She will have guided me to respecting myself, my body, my personhood. She will protect from those who would do me grave harm. She will brush my hair lovingly, and that would be all the brush was ever used for.
As it stands, I have to wait for the quiet dark to take me, for the last gasp to rattle free. Only to hope that at the end there is love there. For if there was no love in my being born, perhaps there will be in my dying.
Next time, maybe.
Words that must be heard 