It was terrible, what she did.

She caressed my cheek with hands not so kind,
She grabbed my wrists with a grip too tight,
Her fingers left light little bruises across my throat,
And I called her my mother.

The woman before me screamed obscenities.

"I hate you."
                      
                        "You're nothing."

"You're not the daughter I wanted"

I called this person my mother.
She gave life to me after all,
I should be grateful.

Even if the bruises take a while to go away.
Sometimes the cigarette burns scar.
The cuts and fractures never completely heal.

I call this my mother.
                         Sometimes, it's terrible what she does.