You always held me so tight and close to your chest,

but you never really dressed like a mother.

You wore black outfits:

long, uncomfortable-looking “trips,”

knee-high black heeled boots,

and lacy arm socks.

You accessorized with chains and spikes,

I thought you looked so beautiful like that,

always going against the grain.

Over the years

I began to understand why you were like that.

You never felt loved, like a dying plant.

You were taken from one person to another,

one family after the other

like you were some discarded, unwanted pet.

There was never a place for you.

Not with your parents,

not with your ex-husbands,

especially not with me.

You always came across as sweet

like those freshly baked snickerdoodles

you used to constantly make.

I hated them so much.

You left a bitter taste in my mouth-

a black spot in my heart,

similar to that cigarette burn you left 

on the bottom of my foot.