mẹ ơi (mommy) by Julia Vu (16, California)*

it’s been six years since my 
parents have read my writing. my 
mother doesn’t mention my 
poetry anymore; she hates my 
selective memory. she says that i ​

---

only ever remember the raised 
voices and slammed doors and 
the quiet tears shed behind 
locked bathroom doors. she says i 
never talk about the lullabies she 
sang when she first cradled me in 
her arms or the way she cried so 
violently she shook. she says i 
never mention the arms wrapped 
tight around my quaking body 
and the fingers that work through 
my sweat-tangled hair and the 
splintered voice of a mother who 
doesn’t know how to save her 
baby whispering in my ear and 
telling me that it’s going to be okay. 

i know you don’t understand me and 
perhaps you never will. perhaps you will never
understand that some days, all i want is to
crawl back into your arms and curl 
back into your womb and be Unborn. 
perhaps you will never understand that some days i
just want to merge back into your being, to just be a
part of you again. mommy, you will never
understand my fascination with dying, but that’s
okay. i don’t either. mommy, it’s too late for an
​abortion, but it’s never too late to keep me. 

mommy. i miss you.

​

​