And my confession,
as far as for now anyway,
is that I have always seen myself in the awful mother
of Virginia Andrew's first book series, Flowers in the Attic:
Corrine Dollanganger.

I make horrible, horrible decisions on the daily that I know I can't keep up with
and that I know will one day catch up to me
like a vicious, rabid wolf in the long, winding forest
while I am a naked, porcelain-pale angel
with not so much as a dusty dagger I found in some forgotten attic corner of a mansion
to protect me.

I wrong people too often and I feel I do not understand what it is to truly make it up to them.
I bring gifts, as many as I can grab, as many as I can carry
and I grovel with my eyes and I beg with an unspoken part of my soul
and I pray it is enough
and it usually is,
but I know one day someone could very well just point this out to me and my bratty nature will come through again.

I might yell,
I might cry with bitter, spoiled frustration.
I never learned what it was to mature.
Not on my own and not in any meaningful way.

I have run away from my family
and I have committed to a mistake that I know I should have gone back on,
that I should own up to and say
this was wrong, this should never have happened.
But I am only a woman, I am only one woman,
and when love presents itself in front of me,
I feel I have to grab at it,
I feel like I just don't know if I'll ever get to see it again,
focused on me, in a way that I feel I deserve,
in a form that I might be able to hold in my palm,
and admire it, whether for seconds
or lasting so long that I become something of a fairy tale in my community.

I guess what I'm saying is that I believe love isn't everything,
but money might buy me what it lacks.
I feel I'm stupid. Too stupid for the opportunities that have been afforded to me.
I'm a pretty woman, but pretty women are everywhere.
I guess I better get myself a pearl necklace,
practice wringing my hands in it when I'm nervous,
in a way that somehow portrays beauty,
displays vulnerability,
but always refuses to admit faults.

I'm sorry.
To my children, literal, future and otherwise,
and to my predecessors, blood or otherwise.
For all I've done and for all I will do.
Let me know how I can make it up to you.
I come bearing gifts, as always, and dripping with desperation to get back into your good graces.