Reflections in the glass
confirm my fears.
Day after day
I watch myself becoming you.
I speak, but hear your voice.
You have returned …
to claim what’s left of me.
You granted me the right to live,
when I was still a part of you.
I thought one day
you’d set me free,
but I was wrong.
Even though blood
has ceased to course
throughout your veins,
you reach out
from that land beyond
and stamp your mark
upon my head.
Still, I suppose,
there are worse fates.
The bloodline isn’t so tainted,
that I should cringe
to share it.
I’ve heard it said,
“We all become our mothers.”
Is that a form of punishment,
or just a mother’s way
of grasping
immortality?
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