you left
before I could form a word,
before I even knew
what a mother was supposed to feel like,
and still the silence you gave me
is louder than anything
I’ve ever learned to say.

every year,
I try to fill your outline
with something–
hope, anger, forgiveness,
sometimes a story
where you come back
and pretend you tried your best.

but your shape
is carved into my life
like a doorway
that leads to nowhere,
and the drafts of that empty space
still chill me.

I build myself
out of the nothing you left behind,
and some days
the nothing feels heavier
than everything I’ve ever carried.
some days I think
the nothing is winning.