I used to think my mother was just like poetry.

On the darkest nights when not even my beloved toy soldiers could keep me safe

I could always count on finding hope in the gleam of her eyes

Vibrant, constant, beautiful

My nightlight North Star when the paper mache seas threatened to consume me.

But now I am older, and I realize

Those eyes were broken glass

No tears fell, and not because she was unbreakable

But because she had already been broken so many times

The feeling ripped from her skin and stuffed with a cheap replacement

She fit together like the wrong pieces of a puzzle jammed together

Colorful, unwavering, tragic

And now I am older, and I can see

My mother was less like poetry

And more like me.