there is a tree in the living room
that is empty of empathy,
empty of accessories
except for a string of lights,
and some solemn mint candy canes.
it rotates, looks good from the window,
and it is fake. looks the same,
every single year.
there is a woman eating pea soup,
in a turtleneck and khakis,
with hair that is cut, in the most
unsmooth of layers. jagged lines,
old-fashioned, uncaring of societal expectations,
stuck here.
i have to pretend to be someone i am not
ten minutes after i enter my mothers home,
because she doesn't have the guts to look me in the eye,
or the self-esteem to swallow me.
(or maybe its me with the problem)
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