It’s dark,
light from the bathroom barely illuminating
the messy bed and cluttered floor.

I sit in my chair, facing a mirror.
Half my face hidden in darkness
the other half deeply contoured,
swollen eyes, blotched face, and runny nosed.

Creaking of floorboards under footsteps,
the soft thud of a cupboard being shut.
I can smell the strong coffee from my room.

I picture her at the counter below me,
her dark hair wild from sleep, eyes glazed from fatigue.
With her white bathrobe tight around her,
fighting the coldness of the morning.

No longer do I feel sympathy and join her.
I only cry for myself now at night,
from the broken promises, or that I wanted them kept.

“just keep things smooth,
until I can figure out what we will do.”
“I’m sick of him mom. I’m done.”
“I know. We’ll leave.”

Does that make me a bad person?
That I believed we deserved more?

I believe a mother should love her children,
enough to protect us, to be strong for us,
to save us.

I hear her sigh with the dripping of the coffee.
The clock in the corner reads almost 3:00 a.m.
I look away from the ugly girl in the glass.
The dead eyes and blank expression scare me.