She is a tapestry of fiction,
a cloak constructed from convenient truths.
Her sentiment slithers,
a hissing whisper in my ear,
dripping in strands of insincerity
that creep down my neck.
Her memories are fabrications,
shoved into the back of her mouth
to keep the truth from coming out.
A vain attempt
at gobbling up sorrow for herself.
I stand in the shadow of grief,
eyes filling with tears,
fury pulsing in my clenched fists.
She bleats emotion,
takes possession of emptiness,
puncturing the air with the razored sting
of a woman seasoned at doling out deceit.
She forgets I was there,
when she said my father
was no longer a person,
forgets he tried to escape
the battering crunch of her insults,
as his mind grew pale,
I feel the anger in my teeth now,
composure stitched to my lip,
trying to break free.
My screams never reach her.
I keep rage hidden under my tongue.
Susan Richardson is the author of “Things My Mother Left Behind”, from Potter’s Grove Press, and also writes the blog, “Stories from the Edge of Blindness”. Her poems have appeared in The California Quarterly, Ink Sweat and Tears, and The Opiate Magazine, among others.
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