I was reading “Salt” by Nayyirah Waheed, and was struck by this poem:
when you are struggling
in your
writing
it usually means
you
are hearing one thing
but
writing another
I am just wondering if I “am hearing one thing and writing another”, or seeing one thing but pretending I am not seeing it, or seeing something and thinking I’ve seen something but it’s actually just an illusion.
Another poem that struck me is this:
cruel mothers are still mothers.
they make us wars.
they make us revolution.
they teach us the truth, early
mothers are humans. who
sometimes give birth to their pain. instead of
children.
I think my grandma fit the poem perfectly. She gave birth to nine children and passed her narcissistic traits to all of them, making their lives as bitter as her own. And five of these children married partners as narcissistic as themselves and gave birth to a new generation of narcissists, whom I call my cousins.
Haoyan Do 