u/Happy_Tie_457

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If you asked how I mothered, I’d say: I stood,

I fed you, I fought, I did what I could.

I held it together with teeth and with thread,

kept life on the table, kept fear out your bed.

But truth doesn’t live in the version we tell—

it waits in the cracks where the silence will swell.

So hear me beneath what I wanted to be—

this is the ledger that lives inside me.

I’m sorry for nights when my anger took lead,

when love should’ve spoken, but fury did instead.

When my voice cut sharp where your trust should’ve grown,

and you learned to feel like you stood there alone.

I’m sorry for moments I made you feel less,

like your worth had a weight I could measure or press.

Like love had a volume, like care had a cost—

like parts of you mattered and parts could be lost.

I’m sorry the war that I carried within

found its way to your door, wore the mask of your sin.

You paid for the damage I never made right—

my unfinished healing dressed up as your fight.

That’s the truth—and it burns—but I won’t look away,

I won’t dress it pretty, I won’t let it sway.

Because owning the wreckage is part of the role—

not just loving a child, but accounting the soul.

But hear me now clear—this is where it will end:

you do not inherit the wounds I defend.

You do not carry the weight that was mine,

you are not my fracture, my fault, or my line.

You are not the echo of where I fell short,

not a verdict of me in some silent court.

You are whole without me, you rise on your own—

not shaped by my damage, but fully your own.

You are fire unborrowed, you are light uncontained,

you are everything pure that the world couldn’t stain.

And whatever I failed, whatever I missed—

doesn’t lessen the power that lives in your chest.

You are my greatest—no ending, no edge,

not a debt I can pay, not a line I can hedge.

Just the proof that I lived, that I loved, that I tried—

even when I was broken, even when I lied…

…to myself, to the weight, to the cracks in my frame—

still I fought for your future through fire and flame.

And if I was heavy… if I was too much…

just know every flaw still came from that love.

© Ellen Martin

Must be nice to slip away, to breathe alone, to buy your day.

To grab your keys and disappear, while I sit stuck right fucking here.

Must be nice to drift and roam, while I hold down this empty home.

To vanish fast, no second thought, I’m always waiting. You’re always not.

Must be nice to clear your head, while mine’s a storm I’ve quietly bled.

You get your peace, you get your space, I get the ache you never face.

Must be nice to feel so free, while every road bends back to me.

I call, you stall, you never see, I’m breaking slow. You let it be.

Must be nice, but let’s be real, you take the time I never feel.

I’m tired of begging for a crumb, of loving someone so damn numb.

So here’s my truth without disguise: Your freedom feels like my demise.

And all I’m left with, in the end, is f*** you, must be nice, my friend.

© Ellen M. Martin

Midnight at the crossroads—dead still, dead black,where the road holds its breath and won’t give it back.

He came like a hunter, all polish, all poise,

with a smile built to soften the sharpest of noise.

He knelt in the gravel and muttered his line—

not prayer, just a habit that tasted like brine.

He whispered the words that he’d used as a key,

sure darkness would open and answer to he.

Then something stepped out where the moonlight was thin—

a child, small shadow, with trouble-grace grin.

Not scared. Not sweet. Not lost in the night.

Just calm in a way that made wrong feel right.

He flashed his best charm, smooth as a con:

“Well hello there, sweetheart—your folks know you’re gone?”

The child blinked slow, like amused by the try,

and smiled like a riddle that learned how to lie.

He leaned in a little, performed his old role—

warm voice, gentle hands, like a saint with control.

The child’s grin widened, then tilted askew:

“That’s cute. I can do it… but better than you.”

He stiffened. “Excuse me?” The child didn’t flinch.

“I said you’re a bargain-bin prince with a pinch

of honey on poison,” the child purred, light.

“You’re good for the daytime. I’m built for the night.”

He bristled, then softened—his practiced-out art:

“Now why so sassy? You trying to start?”

The child said, “No, sir. I’m here to conclude—

but first, since you love games… let’s play something rude.”

The child clasped small hands, sweet as can be:

“I’ve got you a riddle. You answer for me.”

“What walks with your footsteps, but isn’t your feet;

what follows you closely, yet won’t take a seat;

what rides in your shadow, but won’t cast a shade;

what’s colder than winter, yet never decayed?”

He laughed like a man who assumes he can win.

“My conscience,” he said, with a confident grin.

The child shook their head—soft, neat, almost kind:

“No, darling. Your conscience is hard to come by.”

He frowned. “Then what?” The child’s eyes stayed bright—

not bright like a child, but bright like a bite.

“Try again,” said the child. “Here’s clue number two:

It’s already paid… but it’s still coming due.”

He scoffed, “That’s nonsense.” The child said, “Not quite.

You’re standing in debt and pretending you’re light.”

He felt the road thicken, like tar in his lungs,

like silence got heavy and tightened its thumbs.

He tried for a joke, tried to steer with a grin—

but the child’s calm stare made his charm feel thin.

The child said, “Again.”

He snapped, “Fine—my sins?”

The child smiled wider. “You’re close. But you miss.

Your sins are the interest. Your life was the loan.”

Then the child leaned forward and lowered the tone:

“Riddle number two—listen close, don’t be slow:

What ends with a breath, but refuses to know?

What shuts like a door, yet keeps walking around?

What’s buried in truth, but won’t touch the ground?”

He swallowed. He smirked. “A ghost.”

The child clapped once—soft. “Almost.”

“Not ghost,” said the child. “Not yet. Not that neat.

You’re still wearing skin like a lie on a sheet.

But tell me,” the child asked, sweet as a dare,

“why does the air taste like pennies out here?”

He opened his mouth—then tasted the rust.

His tongue felt like paper. His throat felt like dust.

He blinked once, then twice, then stared at his hands—

and saw something off in their shape, in their strands.

Not blood. Not bone. Just… a slight, hollow blur,

like his body was remembered, but not really there.

He tried to step forward—his boot made no sound.

He looked at the dirt—left no mark on the ground.

He laughed—small laugh—but it cracked at the seams.

“This is a trick.” The child said, “No. This is the theme.”

The child tilted their head, voice gentle and plain:

“You died… and you kept on repeating your name.

You’re the type that believes you can’t lose if you try.

So even in death, you kept telling yourself ‘I.’”

He shook his head hard. “No. I’m here. I’m alive.”

The child shrugged once. “That’s the cutest survive.”

Then the child, all sweetness, delivered the blade:

“You didn’t come to the crossroads tonight.

You came because you were called… and you obeyed.”

His lips went cold. “Called by who?”

The child smiled. “By you.”

“You wrote up the invoice with every small choice.

You billed out your damage in tone and in voice.

You charged what you took, you collected your thrill—

and now,” said the child, “it’s time to pay the bill.”

He tried to get angry—old reflex, old pride—

but rage needs a heartbeat to carry the ride.

He tried to look scary—he tried to look tough—

but the night didn’t buy it, not even a puff.

The child stepped closer, eyes steady, amused:

“You’re used to being the one who’s accused—

then charming your way out, then laughing it off.

But tonight,” said the child, “your laugh doesn’t cough.”

He whispered, “What are you?” The child answered, “A clerk.”

Then grinned like a sin that enjoys doing work.

“A clerk?” he repeated, confused and ashamed.

The child said, “A collector. Your balance is named.

I’m the part of the dark that doesn’t negotiate.

I don’t do bargains. I do due date.”

He backed up again—no footsteps, no track—

just panic learning it can’t pay him back.

He tried one last charm—soft voice, humble plea—

but it fell like a feather in deep, salty sea.

The child leaned in, wicked, sweet as a song,

and spoke like a sentence that doesn’t belong:

“You wanted the world on a string you could pull.

You wanted to take and stay tidy and full.

But debts don’t get buried. They ripen. They grow.

And now,” said the child, “you finally know.”

The man whispered, thin, “So what happens to me?”

The child smiled bright—wrong kind of glee:

“You answer the riddle you should’ve guessed first:

What walks without footprints and thirsts without thirst?

What talks without breath and still lies with a grin?

It’s you,” said the child. “It’s what you’ve been.”

Then softly—so softly it chilled like a key—

the child finished, calm as a closing decree:

“No deal. No escape. No ‘one more day.’

Your bill is past due…”

A pause. A smile, gray.

“…and I’m here to play '.

© © Ellen M. Martin