Oh, mother.
What a cycle you have placed me in.
I admired the ways you loved my troubled father, irrevocably.
Were you fatigued after hunting a well nourished mind?
Lonely?
And that brought on the consternation, you were running out of time?
Oh, mother.
What a hurricane you dropped me in.
All the hands I take carry the nostalgic thought of you taking his.
Oh, mother.
What a situation, though long destroyed.
Perhaps you loved my father out of pity.
Perhaps you felt with the correct guidance you could change the direction of his heart.
And though you were never stricken by any substance of this earth, you did become addicted to the way the things he did hurt.
Oh, Mother. I know.
I am calling it a cycle, because I have depressingly felt the same.
Gripping and pulling, the same ripping at my heart.
I stay away from it all because the consternation that builds in and outside of me is: that I’ll become an addict myself or worse, fall in love with one.

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