I lived within you, now
your blood is in me, and
we both dwell inside our
living memory, of

birthdays and bath times,
lectures and retorts, more
jaws clenched and accumulated
anger we didn't sort--it

was held in our chest, near
our breast, never said, till
we piled on words, hoping
that bottled-up beast we'd find dead

from the weight of false smiles, and
sorry's not spoken, till
mother and daughter becomes
just a title token.

The tenderness falters,
degrading to tolerance,
of sameness and difference, concealing
eye rolls,     sighs,        a wince.

And I want to be close, I
hear it in your voice, but
the bitter hardened case around
my heart makes a choice

to judge and to quip, to
sneer and humiliate,
you but more myself for
the actions I facilitate.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, that
I do not like you right now,
which has more to do with my faults,
because I don't really know how.

Please forgive and be patient,
know it's always on my mind, for
every time I ignore or anger,
remember I love you, I want to be kind.