I was paper thin.

You were my rock,
and my scissors.

I had no compass to guide me back to you, my dear.

I only knew a terrible longing for you as my direction,
As though it were a sad and lonesome lullaby playing over and over again, drowning out all but your loud, stifling fears.

I was paper thin.

You were my rock,
and my scissors.

My compass pointed anywhere but to you, my dear.

I only knew this painful craving for you as my one direction,
As though it were a terrifying and tragic movie playing over and over again, blinding out any visual but your face and it streaming with tears.

I was paper thin.

You were my rock
and my scissors.

The compass was broken and I did not find you, my dear.

I only knew this desperate feeling for you as a last given direction,
As though it were a tremendous and interminable journey walking forever and ever, ruling out all other destinations but where your heart hid lifeless and speared.

I was paper thin.

Mom; you were my rock under my paper,
And the very scissors that cut through my life's years.

This compass was not built for us, and so I never found my way back to you…

My mother.

My enemy.

My dear.