My Mothers Gifts....Pride And Pain. Poem by Barbara Gentile

The pride to never ask for help, no matter what the cost.
To suffer in silence, no matter how great the pain.
That I'll never be good enough, no matter how hard i try.
That I'm a wasted heartbeat just taking up space.

But my heart is not wasted,
it holds all the pain
of all your words
of what you said
and what you didn't say.

My feet turn to stone
so I cannot move
neither forward
above your aim,
nor to the side
away from it.
so i crouch down
hands above my head
cowering
and becoming your words.

In your hateful glare You wished me dead
thinking you could make me cry
instead I laugh inside
because the jokes on you,
I'm already dead.