My mother My mother stood in the mirror tracing her hands on the work of art That was a result of nursing me within her as I stretched her body, her stretch marks. She admired those stretch marks that took away her beauty, She stood tall with pride as she lost her figure just to carry me to full growth. I drank life from her body, draining every bit of her, Until she was reduced to nothing but just a mother. Although I reduced her to nothingness almost, taking away her beauty, She still held me like I'm precious. But how am I precious? What's precious is the miracle she performed, Breathing life into me for nine months. People admired my beauty and innocence, But how is that possible when the beauty lies in the innocent act of her self-sacrifice? She split open to create life; that's beauty so innocent and worth admiring. My first home, the one that never lost its warmth and love, Was built with skin, love, care, and warmth, not forgetting her womb. For nine months, I danced and stretched her walls. When I finally burst into the world, I was welcomed with open arms. People clapped for me, forgetting the woman responsible for my birth. They forgot the walls of a woman that split open to bring me forth into this world, The knees that forever kissed the floor, bent in never-ending prayers for my safety and growth. My mother isn't just my mother; she's my hero, My own Superman who doesn't need superpowers to protect me. She only needs her warm hugs to make me feel safe and protected. When people compliment me, I wonder if they see the woman behind who I am. When people say I'm smart and beautiful, I wonder if they know those are just traits I inherited from her. I'll always look at her with great gratitude, For she's not just my mother, my therapist, and caregiver, She's the home that never lost its warmth. @bluey