Over the years my dear girl has told me stories
of the times her mother got drunk.

I heard stories of the sloppy slurs spoken
and the punches that were thrown.

I learned the dynamic of their relationship and would see it play out before my very eyes.

I was there.
I am there.
I live in the moments that deliver black eyes.
Balling up my words of hatred and shoving them in the witch’s black, unforgiving heart.

I can never get over the things she has called me,
the number of times I have deserted the house with tears streaming down my face, feeling my cheeks burn,
or the number of hours I have spent drinking my sorrows away, which made me realize
I am just like her.

But with a second thought, no.
we could never be the same.

She may be the one who gave me life
but she is a monster.

A wretched woman who only thinks of herself.
“I am not like her!” I cry











“I can’t be like her.”