The sting of her words lingers.
They lurk behind her disease and wait for
frustration to force them out into a reckless stream of
anger and hatred aiming for my pride, my confidence,
my heart.

The words may change but the sting never does.

Somedays when I feel strong the sting only
reaches my pride. But when defenses are down they
sometimes pierce my heart shattering into a thousand
pieces of blinding pain, slowly working their way into my heart, my soul, my self.

Comprehension, distance, time… nothing lessens this pain.  

Now the sting is coupled with a flood of memories.

The forgotten manners
The ruined dress
The missing hairbrush.

The unauthorized haircut
The shirt with cleavage.
The boy with the earring.
The bad grade.
The stray puppy.
The curfew broken.
The room so messy.

The wrong career.

The man she hated.

The moments that were clearly her own jealousy.

The tattoo.
The other tattoos.
and worst of all the baby.

Today the sting was followed by an instant sick cheerful happiness.

As if flinging hatred at her grown child healed her bad mood.
While I pick the shards of hatred out of my wounds in
stunned silence…

the moment has passed her leaving me limping behind on my own.  Again.