My mother is a mountain
She never bends or moves
She never breaks or cools
And underneath that thick stony skin there is heat.
My mother is a birch
She is thin and pale
She is beautiful and alive
And any imperfections are as natural as the trees.
My mother is a human
She loves and laughs
She is weak and flawed
And her birch hands, mountain strength make me.
She never bends or moves
She never breaks or cools
And underneath that thick stony skin there is heat.
My mother is a birch
She is thin and pale
She is beautiful and alive
And any imperfections are as natural as the trees.
My mother is a human
She loves and laughs
She is weak and flawed
And her birch hands, mountain strength make me.
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.
so_joy
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