After the scars and the pain and the agony that have now become too much,
I decide to speak.
"I don't like my mother."
I say it out loud.
"She isn't good to me.
She isn't good to our family.
Her sweetness is a lie."
I am instantly clamoured with people saying things like,
"Don't say that!"
"She's your mother!"
"She's been through hell, it's never easy for mothers."
"She's got a lot on her plate."
"You should be understanding."

I don't say a thing.
Just nod, smile and,
On the surface, accept it.
But my mind and heart are screaming,
"Why can't I say it when it's true?"
"I know she is, so why does she treat me like a burden, not a daughter?"
"Then why is she putting me through hell?"
"Why is unloading all that on my plate?"
"Why do I always have to be understanding? Why not her?"