This Time, She Eats

A poem about mothers, daughters, and their quiet defiance of choosing themselves.

She served silence on a chipped plate
This is how a woman disappears.
Left her hunger at the empty grate,
Taught her daughters to swallow their fears.

This is how a woman disappears:
Bones going hollow, voice turned to steam.
Taught her daughters to swallow their fears
Take the crust. Leave the dream.

Bones going hollow, voice turned to steam,
She stirred her name into the soup.
Take the crust. Leave the dream.
Smile tight. Stay in the loop.

She stirred her name into the soup,
Cut pieces of herself each day.
Smile tight. Stay in the loop.
Push the rest of you away.

Cut pieces of herself each day,
Served the best to everyone.
Push the rest of you away
Call it duty. Call it done.

Served the best to everyone.
Drank cold tea and called it fine.
Call it duty. Call it done.
Tied her tongue with kitchen twine.

Drank cold tea and called it fine.
Now her girl takes mental notes.
Tied her tongue with kitchen twine
This is how a woman copes.

Now her girl takes mental notes:
Watch her flinch, then smile again.
This is how a woman copes.
Love means loss. Be sweet. Pretend.

Watch her flinch, then smile again.
Learn to vanish while you give.
Love means loss. Be sweet. Pretend.
This is how a woman lives.

Then one day
One peach slice left.
Her daughter is watching.
The old rules press in:

Split it.
Serve first.
Swallow last.
Don’t be seen.
Don’t be full.
But she doesn’t move.

The knife hovers.
The peach shines.
Her hand trembles.

And still
she sets the whole thing on her plate.
Not out of anger.
Not out of pride.
But because she is tired of teaching her girl
to disappear.

The peach stays whole.
She doesn’t eat it.
She lets it sit, golden and bright.

A still, stubborn prayer:
Let me exist