Dear Mom by Milla Troyer-Reed (Ohio, 22)

dear mom,

Lately I’ve been moved by how
I recognize the bags under your eyes
from every night I splash
water on my face and look up.

I hate having my photo taken
because I have a hard time recognizing
myself (sometimes) and it
scares me (all of the time) and–

I have this compulsion to write
every poem in the first person
and I want to ask if you think
that makes me selfish.

We like pistachio ice-cream and clouds.
I can’t snap because you taught me
to do it with my ring finger instead
of the middle one. I like to tell people
I am chronically late because I get it
from you. I feel happy when you
hug me. I know myself mom
but I’m not sure I’ll ever recognize myself
the way I think I’m supposed to.
And I think it’s good you’ll never
read this because I hate to make you sad​–

but mom,
​
I hate myself less when I look at you
and I remember that I am merely your
B-side. I understand myself when I tug
on that eternal string which spans
from you to me and mom I wish I
could wrap it tighter and tighter until I
lose circulation because–

it’s easier to love myself
when you hold my hand.

    -   love, milla






Milla (she/her) is a poet and student of the world around her. She enjoys listening to albums beginning to end, taking photos of stemless flowers on the street, and walking everywhere within a 35-minute radius. She is a poetry reader for OSU’S The Journal and has recently begun a remote internship with Featherproof Books in Chicago.  ​