My mother's hands are dove wings, gently caressing my cheek

My mother's hands are dove wings, gently caressing my cheek, "My beautiful girl," she whispers, and her words peel off me like dead skin, How dare she love this shell, this body that bears the burden of shadows? How dare she kneel in my ruins, planting flowers where only thorns can grow? I wish to open my ribs, to show her the nest of spiders inside, "See? This is what you embrace," I'd say, as she looks with gentle eyes, But she, with her unsettling tenderness, manages to see beyond the darkness, She sees a field of daisies where I see only barren and cold earth. In my heart, spiders weave tales of long ago, yet she hears only songs, In my heart, shadows dance, but she sees only the light sneaking through the cracks, Her hands, dove wings, wipe away my fear and pain in a ritual of rebirth, She dares to love, and her love becomes the garden where I begin to grow again.