I am not my mother’s favorite child, 

it took a lot of tears to drown it in. 

My mind’s ramblings assumed  

it was because I had overestimated our maternal connection, 

always following behind, clutching fast to my umbilical cord. 

Perhaps it was because I was so well versed in keeping the decadence in 

and unpermitted she had seen it. 

Maybe it was because my characteristic pleasing had become predictable. 

It could be the black hole in my chest 

digesting all the love I have she had noticed. 

Might have been her voice in my head,  

whispering self-doubt into my self-esteem. 

The fact that I was a woman destined to join another family,  

tradition laying metal rose petals on my way to my husband’s house. 

Certainly it is how much of a better person he is. 

Ignoring my mind, I know it’s nothing 

just the fact that she loves him more than me. 

I am not my mother’s favorite child,  

at least that’s one less thing to live up to.