Words

These words have been trapped inside my throat,
They are hurtful and harsh, it’s true.
Yet now I shall speak them, by you provoked,
Devoid of compassion and rue.

See, I’ve grown up, angry and neglected,
Of your motherly affections deprived
You seem to think that I mustn’t be respected,
That our relationship cannot be revived.

It’s hard to believe that to you I am kin,
And that of your womb I have sprung.
I do not think I could ever begin
To name all the insults that roll off your tongue.

A disgrace to the family? Defected and dumb?
Like salt in a wound your words sting.
Mother I know not what I have done,
Other than brave, honest things.

How could you honor these works of spite,
Dear mother with whom I am plagued?
Or worship a Dark Lord without contrite,
Whose intentions are thoughtless and vague?

When nighttime arrives and darkness unfolds,
The safety of sleep evades me.
I am flooded with many memories of old,
Of a time when I was not angry.

“Good night, and I love you,” you whispered into my ear,
Gentle hands tucking my bed sheets close.
Your words would erase all my worries and fears,
Of boggarts, monsters and ghosts.

Yet the kind words are gone, a thing of the past.
I’ve seen the monster within.
I stand for courage and honor, in contrast,
To your love for dark arts and Slytherins.

Your antics are hurtful, undeniably absurd.
Yes, this is what I think.
I owe no apology for uttering these words.
Into darkness I shan’t sink.

These words are no longer trapped inside my throat,
They are hurtful and harsh, it’s true.
For I have spoken, by you provoked,
Devoid of compassion and rue.