the apple ran far from the tree


i wonder if she was born venomous with a destiny to poison,

or if her upbringing made her cold, giving her a vendetta against anyone she was supposed to love—

anything that tried to love her.

i watched her save lives, but never her own and never mine.

how can you give to others what you cannot give yourself?

i watched myself fall out of love with her through every betrayal,

every fallen façade.

and now i grieve what i could’ve had, should’ve.

i am my own mother.

and in some twistedly poetic way,

i am everything she could have been.

and maybe that’s why. maybe i reminded her that if only she had the curiosity, the resources, or any ounce

of love left in her bones, she could have learned to lower her fists.

if only she wanted to.

so the apple ran far from the tree,

and i am still running.

i run when i see her face in my mirror and when i hear the Dixie Chicks.

there are some things a girl just needs a mother for.

although i wear clips in my hair like her and even though i have her creative ability,

there are mountains between us

and i am still running.

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