by Carolyn Cecil
Life sentence.
Penance for over-mothering,
smothering.
Her tears,
five hundred miles away;
I own them,
bear them,
willingly. Her wounds I wear;
they are mine.
Pacing,
eating all day, tearing my hair,
wringing hands,
gorging
on self-inflicted pain;
depleted.
I fear I am going
mad and, in the midst of it,
already have.
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