My Mother Gothel (Poem)

There are many survivors

Of my Mother Gothel

We wear weights on our chest

And think ourselves awful

 

She primps and she preens

She thinks she’s all that

But when she tells a joke

We let it fall flat

 

We’re over her act

We really don’t care

Whether she likes us or not

She’s out of our hair

 

On Sunday and Monday

We often don’t talk

On Tuesday and Wednesday

I give her a shock

 

You work me too hard

I carry a huge load

“Oh honey you’re wrong,

I’m not a fat toad”

 

On Thursday and Friday

There’s hardly a word

No interaction

No voices are heard

Finally on Saturday

I say my part

I tell her what I mean

I share from my heart

 

Mom, I’m done here

And I’m moving out

I can’t take it anymore

Don’t you dare pout

 

If I knew you’d miss me

I’d be liable to stay

I always get sucked back

You would find a way

 

But this time I have

The other survivors

They tell me of freedom

Of emotional revival

 

They check all my blind spots

And warn me of danger

They’ve got my back

But in the end we can’t change her

 

We are not champions

We have won no prize

Except to be survivors

Of Mother Gothel’s lies