It was your hand gripped onto the back of my neck.
You pulled down onto my body and I ached for more.
Your hips were grinding against me.
The music in the background faded and the windows fogged.

"No more disappearing," I breathed heavily.

You said, "I won't."

We collided in heavy need and our lips crashed as if the waves of our beach was caught in a storm that had been long overdue.
Our clothes pulled off our bodies and the heat between us steamed.

After that,
It was a blur.
We melted in each others embrace not so lovingly.
Somewhere in that moment,
You asked me,
"What do you want?"

I said, "Something I can't have."

And in that moment,
We realized just how human we were.

I would laugh and brush it off.
It was a common question,
One that was asked too frequently.
"Where's your motHer? How is she?"

I always replied with something vague.
"She's been away for a while."
Or
"My mother? She's been sick so I haven't seen much of her."

Really, though,
She's at home wishing she could hurt me.
I know, I know,
She's my mother.
Mothers aren't supposed to do that, right?
You sEe,
My mother thought love came in bundLes of fist fights,
Of crying,
Of cuts and bruises.
I know she was raised that way, I know.

What I can't seem to understand, though,
Is that she passes this "love" down.
It makes me sad.
I wish she knew how much it hurt to see my mother in Pain,
But it also hurts to see a stranger behind drunken eyes lay her hands upon the child that made her into what she is now.

I hate her.
But she is my mother,
Right?