Valentine

I hate the roses, but I want to love.

(I HIGHLY recommend audio)

February 14th. 

I love roses,

the chocolate, I

love the love, which
stays stagnant in

the air like a puff

of tobacco

on a cold evening.

February 14th.

My mother calls

me every valentine,

every valentine she tells

me how much she wishes she

could see me.

Every valentine, I saw her smile

falter only for

a moment, the warmth leaving

but she would pick 

it right back up, as

if it was only the idea of

sadness that I'd imagined.

/

February 14th.

My mother missed a call,

which is strange,

and I'm so used to tradition and

ritual at a young age, but I

don't question it.

Because my mother has

always loved me

even if I haven't seen her

in person

since I was born,

I know she has,

because every valentine she

would call.

//

February 14th.

I was in the car,

I remember,

driving home

after a long day

with my family

my father's face

hung low

but he still managed

to ask about my day.

As I grew, I knew when

he was going to tell me

something bad,

but I was 10,

I couldn't read the words

he was about to tell me, 

until they fell from his lips,

until I felt my heart

fall, too.

//

February 14th.

My mother died, 

there was no funeral,

she was cremated, 

I'd never seen her in my life

and I would never

see 

her

again.

I cried, but what for?

Crying for something I

didn't know?

For moments which could have

passed?

For time we could have

spent?

I cried, and I remember looking

at the obituary,

and seeing the words

written in

dark black ink, as

if it knew how my heart

felt as it 

bled.

I read the date:

February 14th.

I f*****g hate roses,

I hate the red of the

petals, the

red they spared my mother

of as they burned

her sad corpse.

I f*****g hate chocolate,

the chocolate of her skin

the chocolate which was

sweet like her smile.

I f*****g hate love.

I wanted to be loved.

I wanted my mother

at my side, loving me

with all of her big

heart, but now

that heart has

been encased in 

a ceramic pot,

in the corner of some

room, as people continue to live

and breathe, as they celebrate 

love every year.

I will never f*****g forget, 

and if I do, I'll know to remember

it every time I see

a red heart balloon

floating in the air, the

air filled with love

love and my quiet, 

disgusting,

hateful, 

despair. 

February 14th.

I still wait for her

calls, her smile,

large and warm

big and inviting.

I still wait for that

feeling in my heart,

which pools at the bottom

of my stomach.

That feeling when I get a

box of chocolate or

a card,

where I get roses, 

and a hug.

But it never comes,

it never comes,

yet year round,

Valentine does.

I want someone to fix

me.

Make my heart whole

again, love fully,

understand completely.

But I know it's impossible,

because as it does every year,

and every year it still will,

the month will roll by,

so will the lovers, and my

calendar will always read,

February 14th.

Author's Note

https://voca.ro/17JdCu5Iv4NT
I truly think reading this with the audio will be worthwhile.
I feel the death of my mother played a huge part in why I express how I feel in writing, I don't even write poems if I'm being honest, but she did, so sometimes makes me feel closer to the woman I never knew, but hope someday, as time passes, and as the February passes by, I will, even if it's not now.

Reviews

[Franky]

I got teary eyed with this one Maya. Very heart wrenching stuff! I lost my mom too soon too but your situation is much more intense and an imprint on your heart.

Your writing stands out here.

[maya_online]

Thank you, you're too kind, losing a parent is always hard, just know I am here for you, whenever !

[cain_notfound]

Wow. I mean like...s**t. I've never lost my mother, and I'm sure I would die without her, so hearing your experience made my heart sink at the thought of my own mother, the way you weave your words together to portray such a image for your readers is...crazy.

Your voice, which I'm sure i've said before, is so crazy attractive, with you being a writer, reading it out makes it hit twice as hard, somehow you seem sorrowful and unapologetic all in the same. I'm beginning to notice how you use repeated phrases to really make your poems impact readers, and it can only work for you, simply put, you don't use big terms to describe how your feeling, and while usually I can't sit through long poems, whenever I read yours, I feel upset they don't keep going. Gorgeous work.

[maya_online]

Hi, Cain! Lol, thanks for the help on making my new account, and thank you for your words, you should write more, then I'll be able to compliment you as much as you do me!

[cain_notfound]

Of course, as I always mean it Maya, I'm planning to write today, but I know you were looking for a male counterpart to write a romance series with, did you find them?