Necrophiliac

I have become addicted to the smell of you.

What smell is that?

The smell of sweat, soil, cigarettes, yeast and warm rum.

...

It isn't an insult. That smell is like my personal stash of high... And now that you're not around anymore, I've created it for myself.

What?

I walk around in this old forest at the end of the lane, smoke a few and treat myself to a rum every morning sitting nearby this place. That's how I douse myself in the memories of you.

You shouldn't do that.

Oh, who are you now to tell me this? You're just a dead body in this old forest at the end of the lane from 2 weeks ago. I love you though.

...

Mother

I am a child watching my mother stress over the colours she uses to paint. She demands perfection in every stroke and motion. It stresses and upsets her. I am her child. I am not controllable nor controlled, I behave as per my own free will. This is more stressful. What will people say?

I am a child, I wish my mother would give me some attention and the love I *know* she has somewhere inside of her for me. She must, right? I am her own flesh and blood. Why would she reject me?

So I painted her a garden of vividity against black and white. I penned a note asking her to let her colours bleed all over the white sheets of paper and make some messy but achingly beautiful art.
She is my mother and she has a beautiful mind. May be it is difficult to express her feelings but I would like to know them, share them even, if she would let me in.

Whether she is as desperate as me for someone to say, "yes, I see you, I accept you, I understand, maybe not fully but enough to know that the colours that bleed from your soul are so painfully beautiful that not everyone cam handle it, maybe even I can't but I still see it, I feel you, I love you."

: For all the mothers struggling with depression, your children do not hate you.