Three years out.
Fear still flushes over me
When they say it doesn't get easier.
It's probably true.
But I live in this deep denial
That mothers carve out of their flesh
The deep ache in their bones
From never throwing in the towel
But always wanting to.
Don't tell me that I'll feel better
Because I really might not.
The sheer will it takes to try to be myself
Amidst the muffled din of constant mothering
I could have never believed I could do it
If you told me what I'd become.
A force of will
Not necessarily for my child
But for the sake of my own fragile sanity.