your daughter

some people see me. they say they see
me smart, pretty. they say i'm still
here. i look at me from outside me
in pictures, in my memory and
i am beginning to see the places
where you break the way i love.
you make me feel lost when i
look straight into my own eyes.
straight, and see an innocence keep giving.
mother, i'm not your daughter anymore.
the law changed us when you ran from the law.
you tried to escape your self and released me
along the way. i try not to wait
for what i know will give destructively.
the memory i dreamed of for so long
is gone, now empty because i don't even know
you. you don't look at me
until you're broke without a fix,
kneeling at my feet and begging
for validation. after two years of
hiding, stealing, lying, jealousy
because i am not ending my own life
backward in your honor.
i make you want to use? i have to tell you
i am not ashamed. i have to hear
when you tell me that i'm beautiful
in a way that makes me feel i shouldn't be.
why do you look at me at all?
others say they're grateful to see
what i share, but still i give it
through a faint pain that pulls me hard against it,
and i can't get over, around, across.
mother, i am still here.
you keep me to let me go. want me,
to go. you don't feel proud. you think
you look bad against me and that's all you know.
where are you when i'm lucky and
you have given me to the world?
should i be sorry, if i am your curse
by burning what bleeds you?
am i not big enough to change your mind?
at your hospital, we all look away.
we can't say why but we know better.
your mouth, your teeth are black
with what you drink to clean you.
you're laughing, hysterical,
in slow motion, then look out
and don't know me.
you look across with your eyes
out from your dark high and don't know
your daughter.
mother, i'm still here, but we're wrong
and we both lost our names.
i don't know me either.