Paula and her mother Mar

THE KISS OF DEATH

“What Love Leaves”

A mother’s love can wrap too tightly,
smothering in its warmth and worry.
She means well, but her care can crowd,
leaving little space to breathe or grow.
Still, beneath the weight, it’s all love trying to protect.

You held me first
with arms that knew
how to hush a storm
before I had words for rain.

Your voice, a veil of lullabies,
wrapped my sleep
so tightly
even dreams could not escape.

But love, when fed on fear,
grows roots too deep.
You watered me with worry,
trimmed my edges
until I forgot
what it meant to reach.

You taught me that safety
was never outside
your gaze—
that the world would steal me
if I stepped too far.

So I stayed.
For years.
Breathing in the scent of you—
lavender, garlic, prayers—
learning to shrink
into the shape of daughterhood.

Now, I leave
not in anger,
but with lungs aching
for their first full breath.

You kiss my cheek—
gentle as ever—
but it lands like a seal,
a pact I never signed.

You say,
“You’ll come back.”
I say,
“I love you, but I can’t stay
where I can’t grow.”

And this is the wound
neither of us will name:
how love, once holy,
can harden into something
too heavy to carry,
too sacred to throw away.