Between Bruises & Blooms

I am held together
by coffee gone cold,
black clothes,
and little hands
that never stop reaching for me.

One at my hip,
one wrapped around my leg,
one leaning into my ribs,
one pretending he is too big
to need his mother
while standing close enough
to breathe me in.

There is always someone calling—
Mom.
Mommy.
Mama.

A chorus
I once begged the universe for
without knowing
how loud answered prayers could be.

My house is never quiet.
There are crumbs in places
crumbs have no business being,
tiny socks multiplying like curses,
cups abandoned on every surface,
toys beneath my feet
waiting to take me the fuck out.

And still—

some nights,
when the chaos finally softens
and four bodies are sleeping
beneath the same roof,

I stand there
in the wreckage of our day
and realize

this is the life
I fought like hell to keep.

These are the arms
that found their way back to me.

These are the babies
who made a home
inside every broken part
of my body.

They have seen me tired.
They have seen me unravel.
They have watched me become
something softer
without ever becoming weak.

I am not the mother
from the pretty pictures.

I am smudged mascara,
messy hair,
bare feet,
half-finished coffee,
laundry mountains,
bedtime battles,
and whispered apologies
when I lose my patience.

I am
try again tomorrow.

I am
come here, baby.

I am
I’ve got you.

Again.
Again.
Again.

Because motherhood
was never going to make me clean.

It made me feral.

Four little hearts
orbiting mine,
four reasons
to bare my teeth
at anything
that tries to take
our peace again.

So yes—

same mess.
same noise.
same exhausted woman
standing in the middle of it all.

But somehow,
after everything,

more laughter.
more hands reaching.
more bodies piled into my bed.
more pieces of my heart
walking around outside me.

Same chaos.

More love.

And God,
what a beautiful fucking mess
we have made.