Mothering as I do

over three,

a toddler, nine and fifteen.


I am just one

stretched between lives

searching for my own.

Heart, smashed

against time.

Sand broken,

falling under glass.


Romance is wasted

on the privileged,

young and ignorant

and on the love received

with no need for it.


This is not a rant,

but a question of self

and circumstance.

A life overrun with fear

where it should not be.


Demands have been

trespassed upon my spirit.

I am I, though

I have been taught

wretched ugliness

by one who was

as harsh to me

as I have become.


A judgmental



I will learn my truth

of perfection,

but I will never find.

It only lies

in the eyes of those

that behold mine.


Love can be

an abrasive fiend

unspoken or accepted,

sometimes given

with an iron mallet.



I no longer want,

but I hope

for consideration

or affection.

Flowers picked

not bought

and perhaps

two arms to hold

as I run in place.


Am I…

For when the child inside


who will be there to teach

and guide the spirit in me

that walks as I do?






by Marjorie Broussard


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