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?