Anger in bitter folk
Is past abuse saying, I’m here, listen.
Bitter folk hate the sun and loathe love
They are flaw-filled, expecting perfection in you
They hurt and expect to be hurt, any minute now, every moment now.
Compassion and empathy, only for daytime soap protagonist
Not daughters, misguided and misunderstood daughters
Begging for the part of Mom where hope resides.
That pure part where being a ballerina, finding Prince Charming and living happily ever after, lay dormant and undisturbed.
That part is there, scraped and thin like cervix surfaces having seen their fair share of angry abortions, dreams dilated and currataged
I'm looking for that place in you, I hope something alive and lovely about me, is still there and