Hug I Will Never Get
I carried the weight of the world in my hands,
Three small hearts beating through my own,
Raised on weary limbs and sleepless nights,
In silence, I labored — always alone.
I gave them my body, my breath, my days,
Stitched their childhoods with trembling thread,
Fed them with hours I didn’t have,
Wrapped them in warmth when the world felt dead.
I bent like the willow in winter wind,
Never breaking, though I often came close.
They grew — and with them, my hope would rise,
That one day, they’d know what hurt me most.
But now they say I gave them nothing.
Not a gift, not love, not even a cake.
They don’t see the lights I turned off,
So they could eat for heaven’s sake.
They forget the shoes I patched with care,
The birthdays I made from scraps and thread.
But I remember every silent tear,
And every lullaby I softly said.
What I crave now is not their praise,
Nor medals, nor thank-you’s late and cold.
I just want one hug that tells me I mattered,
That my love was real — not bought or sold.
I long for arms that pull me in,
With no judgment, no shame, no demand.
To feel — just once — like a mother held,
By the children I raised with my own hands.
To be seen not as a shadow or wound,
Not a figure from some bitter tale.
But as the woman who never stopped loving,
Even when her heart would fail.
I won’t get that hug. I know that now.
It’s a dream stitched from grief and fire.
But still I mother, and still I ache —
For that one moment of pure desire…
To be enough.
To be loved back.
To be understood.
To belong.
mjm 5/25
Copyright ©
Mintra Mankasingh
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