Counting Stars

I miss my mother.

She treated me like a adult.
A thinking loving person.
Not a child.
Not faulty. While she knew my faults.

Now I'm left.
Questioned. Judged. Mocked. Laughed at.

No protection. No counseling. No love. Only silence.

I look at her photograph.
Smiling at me.
Jarring. Loving. Comforting.
Loss.

I hear her voice in my head
And I scream back silently.
Why now. Why already.

My life falls to pieces.
I hold my head above the flood.
A friend. A lover. A collegue. A enemy.

All say the same.

I'm strong. I'm worthy. I'm polished. I'm an adversary. A survivor.

Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.
Blood to water. Water to blood.

Clarity is potent. Present.

I am my father's daughter. I am my mother's son.

I am the Chauhan without a horse.