Side Stepping in the Morning

Let the dog out

tell her she’s a good girl

grab a coffee from the shattered

woman who gave birth.

Each of us with words stuck

in our throats.

The previous night

she sat on the hot seat again

but this time was personal

and between the whipped one

and the mom.

Holding firm with a quiver of arrows

the mom drew and shot repeatedly;

with a shrug of the shoulders

and an amused grin

the former downtrodden held firm.

The mom, miss perfect, who feels

so rotten inside is primping both

deed and voice. Innocent,

she always is, as she deals with

incredible guilt inside.

Her utterances are of other’s

misdeeds, carefully braoched

to not sound like complaints.

My answers are short,

like curtains drawn.

The disassociation has begun

and she’s pretending it’s okay.

The one most resistant to

change is the one

who has the most to lose.

All I say is

“I’m not going to bring it up again,

but I’m not going to let it go, either.”

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