Mother.
Mother, you don't understand,
you don't know what it's been like.
You tell me to walk away from compliments,
from breath perfumed with vanilla vodka,
and arms with sinews that my own lack.
Mother, you don't understand,
that satisfaction comes from blood
that someone else releases,
from nameless flesh pressing
against my own nameless flesh.
Mother, you don't understand,
even though you should know best,
that love has nothing to do with it,
and loss,
everything.
If you disapprove,
then you should know,
that mother,
it's all because of you.
Copyright © Lisa Barton | Year Posted 2008
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