i guess the way she looked at me then...felt almost loving...
she looked at me as if i was a work of art. something she had always known, but now had seen for the first time. as if i was a wonder, a new soul, a baby, rolling on a blanket. like something she could love, because it seemed so close, something she could have anytime, always, something that would be constant in her life. i humbly pretend to not to notice. it's because i know that what she sees is not me.
in the backyard, there are two women, sitting by the garden table. the candle burns, and it's a warm august night.
this is us.
at times she seems beautiful. like a martyr, who is dead tired, but keeps going. she's creative, she loves art, especially the theater. at times i believe she has a golden soul. at times her face seems soft, and her voice is like a lullaby. at times i despise her. i pray that im nothing like her. i pray that i dont share her fate. shes old. she looks like a fat swine. she seems bitter, and passive, unable to change what she hates. and she hates everything. she hates me, she hates herself. at times shes so stuborn, like an old donkey, she just wont listen to anyone. shes always mad, she screams, and says things i hope she'll regret.
looking at the stars, im aware of her staring. i think about what would she be like if it wasnt for me.
im so sorry. im a bad daughter. it's just that she makes me...so confused. im not sure of anything with her, there's no stability. i dont know which side of her is true. we dont know each other, yet we hurt each other's most sensetive spots. she's a rotting rose with poisonous thorns.

Herbert James Draper- A Water Baby (circa 1895)

but there is no home