meddle

6.20.17

her mother tended to meddle

too much because her father never gave a damn

her mother took on the role with the same grace as someone stung by bees

the way her face twisted as each question forced its way out her pursed lips

the way her body tightened, flinching with each unsatisfying response

disdain clung to her mother’s skin like her caked-on powder

 

her father barely knew the face of his daughter

so her mother studied every nuanced line on her daughter’s face

mapping lies and guilt before words fully escaped her insecure lips

she circled her daughter’s life with precision, not warmth

the way vultures hunt the sky

the way flies can act like vultures hunting the sky

 

 

©2017 erin hoffman – all rights reserved

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