A Mrs. Wormwood Type

I marvel at you, mother,

for the copious naps you took.

Your refusal to hug or play,

or even share a book.


I marvel at the table;

covered, covered in drugs-

you loved them while I got apathy,

ignored, yelled at, cold shrugs.


I marvel at the gaslighting 

and being told I was dramatic.

Wouldn't it have been nice, to be loved?

Even just a little love, not anything emphatic!


I marvel at the evil

and the ugliness you spew.

The ghastly, the deathly white,

the cruelty in everything you do.


I marvel at the idiocy,

your attempt at scapegoat child.

Your pathetic cry of victim,

reality not something you've reconciled. 


Still,


I marvel at my strength, 

that in spite of you I thrive.

That I am full and wonderous and

despite you, I survive! 

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