I am loved. I think.

My mother loves me.
I know she does.
She expresses it in her own
special way.
Like how she screams
I love you
through the facade of her
shattered lens of perceiving
Like the way she calls ambulances
to come and take me away
because she loves me and worries
so much that I'm in pain.
I used to be jealous of how she
loved my sister
and how she once called the police
to taker her away
because of her high fever
Now I know we're on even
scales she and I - loved equally.
I know my mother loves me
for all the times she cursed me
and gave me the silent treatment
in between her ragings
she loved me through her food
and riddled nurturings when
I lied dying of whichever ailment
it was at the time
blood poisoning
boils
broken back
anorexia
or just plain wanting to die.
She showed up with lemons
and tea and if we were rich that
month some honey.
I love my mother
like a rock
like a martyr
like a soldier
like a renegade
bittersweet and deadly
belladonna style
dare to venture
and prepared to die
if I ever get too close
to the fire of her love.

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