You used to make such beautiful music --
both with your voice and your violin.
Your long, spindly fingers knew just where to press down
onto the fingerboard,
creating the perfect pitch. . .
People were always drawn to you,
despite your lies and deceitful heart
just beneath the surface.

I can't imagine being your mother,
having to bear the sheer embarrassment of
birthing such a vindictive child into the world.
I've seen your mother's pained expression
every time she looks at you--
tight lips, pressed firmly together, and
a face devoid of all
color,
life,
and love,
with deeply sunken, disdain filled eyes.

Do you feel safe around her?
I know I wouldn't.