The Last Mother

Sick.

I feel so sick.
Sick of trying, sick of dying
little by little here
in front of my desk
and the chair that leaves my back aching
in the morning and the evenings
and the minutes in between.

Sickening, isn’t it?
To listen to my moaning
my constant whinging
the never-ending complaints that spill forth
from my lips
a rain of vitriol
a spewing
of hate.

It must make you sick.
That must be it.
The reason you leave me here
coughing and wheezing
struggling to breathe
in a puddle of my own waste.

Leave me
oh leave me then.
Perhaps it is better that way
then you can pretend
that I never existed at all.
Isn’t it an easy escape route?

I’ll leave you then.
Does it make you happy?
An existence without this stone dragging behind you
tied in an aching clasp around your waist.

Perhaps the earth will be kinder to me
in death then it was in life.
Take me back into your folds
Last Mother,
welcome me into your arms
the last embrace.