I hear the banter, shaking the foundation
The little gasp of "Oh, how could he"
The pulsing laughter of acceptance
and ultimatly, pity.
I squeeze my little fingers though the crack
holding each breath as to not be seen,
But I am pretty sure they know I am there.
I watch her stroke her head through her
achromatic strands.
I want to be her.
Her lips, mulberry wine,
the rouge streaks her cheeks
with perfect hues of peach
She slings profanity like my father warned
only a trucker would do.
But I like it when she swears
I can feel the power melt into the other woman.
I know they talk of my Father,
Who has not sat and ate one single meal with us
for what seems like an eternity.
They make me hate him.
I enjoy the anger that wells up inside.
She sips her coffee and her lipstick stains the cup.
I know I will remember her tears when I clean that mug.
I want to be her.
Her laugh leaps into my heart as if it were a song
When she holds me the smell stays in my mind all night long.
I cry myself to sleep and ponder how my Father
could ever leave the most beautiful woman I have ever seen
My Mother. |
Submission Name: My Mother
