Aborted Adoration

I make them little

trinket holders so their future

selves won't forget me 

completely. 

She says she's becoming more like her mother in an admiration 

I'll never know. 

The bird on the lawn, vibrant yellow, 

an intentional observation made by 

someone older to someone smaller

a long time ago. 

I smirk when I say it out loud, 

only because it's been since forever

I started carrying it with me everywhere. 

At peace with her faith, her finality 

in statements no longer 

feels grounding to me now. 

But I play it off with a faux

carefree laugh so she won't stop 

seeing me each week. 

When I ugly cry, I sometimes pretend

someone's filming it. 

Like how I used to feel whenever 

I would dance or sing in a canopy-adorned bedroom; 

my mother still gushes over it 

as a personal parental milestone. 

I wet the bed so much on that mattress. 

But similarly to how she claims 

I wasn't all that awful in school, 

I became housebroken 

at an appropriate age too. 

Shame is funny.

Dysphoric shame, even funnier.