In this unforgiving mirror
I sometimes find my mother’s scornful face and recall our years of war,
her spiteful contempt to my resemblance of the man who never gave her her dreams
how I leeched on the lifelong resentment, stating my disdaining gratitude for that truth.
why did time in such slow and condescending sarcasm prove us both wrong?
and why do I look at my daughter’s face and secretly wish she was more mine?
