If only I was conceived in love and not in the hot, backseat of a car in adultish excitement and desperation to leave home.
If only god had chosen a mother who wanted me and put me in the womb of that woman.
If only my painful crowning at birth had somehow made me adorable and wanted and cute. And loved.
If only the thoughts of mother had not been, “what is that thing? What is that alien child? Did that come out of me?”
If only I knew a mothers’ love, her gentle touch, her caring looks. Remembrances and wonderfully special gifts on special days and holidays.
If only I had a mother who actually knew ME and not just the definition of me. Daughter. What does that mean?
If only I could somehow be a favorite and not the outcast child. Just once. Just for five minutes. Could she possibly hug me? Tragically, it will. never. be.
If only I could catch your eye just once before you die. Maybe. Just maybe I could be your little girl. If only I could catch your eye, maybe you could love me.