My Mother Loves Me

My mother hates me –
oh wicked liar I am,
she says she loves me
And everyone tells me so

I can do nothing right
And she chases me
, hairbrush
In hand to hit me all over
She says she loves me

I can say nothing right for her
I am rude, ungrateful,

And rewrite the history
Where she smelt of roses

No shouting at me, no threats
Not biting me, not calling me whore

There was no conflict ever
And she never kidnapped me

She hasn’t said I’ll come to no good
Or that she’d be a better mother
For my daughter, who hates her
She never stamped her foot

I’ve torn my hair out, actually
I’ve clawed my face and hit my head
But now I just don’t bother
When I can, I go to bed

See, I have responsibilities
And love my daughter dearly
So I need pay the bills, buy the food
I can’t indulge my memories

She didn’t shout when I was mute
By operations on my brain
And never felt sorry for herself
When I was totally helpless

Promise me this; never be
Helpless in front of my mother

She’ll shred you up and spit you out
You need to close up like a clam

Years of practice it took me
To tighten up that shell real tight

And become invisible to all
No more audible than a mouse

So it took years to let friends in
But still keep out my mother

Leaning to be a ducks back
Whilst alive to my loving pals

Am I then a schizophrenic?
No, I’m simply grown up wise
And cannot allow further hurt or hate
To waste my life and time

Written in 1999

Published in Know Thyself, Heal Thyself

By Chrisssie Morris Brady

I've read poetry since I was nine and have written creatively since I was fourteen (probably long before that). After writing book reviews and social comment, I decided I wanted to write poetry. I have no formal training, but I surround myself with poets and their writing. I am honing my craft.
I have two published collections which I don't feel good about, but have been published by and other publications. I live on the south coast of England with my daughter. I am seriously ill.

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