Fuck You Connection

Fuck you mom.

Your words fly across the room.

Sear into my skull. Oh no. Oh, nonono.

I know that you didn’t just say that to me.

How out of your mind, child, do you have to be.

No games. Clean your room. And the kitchen too.

Mama, get your fucking self out my fucking room.

Know what? You’re grounded for a week.

You don’t fucking care?

Fine then. We’ll make it a month or a year.

How big do I have to make my angry show?

How big does your consequence need to grow?

To say you cannot talk to your mother that way.

I look at your eyes, expecting to see

The same anger your words have boiling in me

But instead, desperation. A hot tearful plea.

How hurtful, how vulgar, how loud must I be?

Before my mom will see… before she’ll see me?

If I don’t hurt you mom, will I disappear?

If you get your way, will I even be here?

How do I know that I matter? I don’t feel seen.

Do you see my sad? See my want and my fear?

Am I even real?

Just a prop in your world. Part of a story that’s not mine.

When is my time?

I’ll just throw out a cuss word. Everything’s fine.

If I can make you angry, at least I can see,

That I matter and you’ve been affected by me.

And I see.

Her “fuck you mom” for the gift it is.

An olive branch. A second chance.

Her whisper I missed. Her mumble dismissed.

Now she gives me her roar. One more chance.

An invitation.

Deep breath. Lean in to the fuck you.

Connection.

I see you. At least, I will try.

Let’s clean the kitchen. I’ll wash and you dry.

Don’t mind if I cry. Just dust in my eye.

Tell me where I’m wrong. Tell me where you’re right.

A fuck you connection is fierce and it’s mine.