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I often though the bond between mother and daughter was out of movie, the Gilmore girls, loving caring, my best friend. We would spend eloquent Sundays at the mall, bags to our forearms, and the malls food court splattered on our chins, the worries and woes of yesterdays washed away, the subsiding sounds of dads laughter drifting off, and the numerous dating site tabs you had on your phone for me to see a distant memory. I thought I deserved it. However, you and I were not out of the perfect coming of age of movie, we were the kinds they didn't write movies about. You looked at me shameful, was it because I was another nuisance to your burden, or because I reminded you of dad, or maybe I reminded you of yourself. As I lay in bed now, I look up to the plastered white ceiling, you always hated the color white, you believed anything to eggshell or cream was better suited. I look at the bright candle lit white and think of all the times your words cut deep into me, the times you told me eating was evil, the times you bantered about my rolls, or the times you yelled at me with no care, no shame, and no regret. I dont remember the lively times you and I went to the local mall, right when it opened the lights peering in and the crowds hadn't bustled for the day, you always preferred it that way, desolate, bare, and raw. I only remember the times you honored the pictures of me, skin and bones, destroyed, and yearning. The times you took the plate away from me, the times you peeled my skin off to get ride of my scars and marks, the times you would yell at me the second I got in the car and for the whole ride home, with my tears burning so deeply into my skin, there were no more layers for you to pull back. I think about the depth of our relationship, from the moments you candled me running your fingers through my hair as I broke down into your arms, or the moments you told me your preferred me when I didn't eat. Yet, its hard to see you as a villainous monster, you aren't evil, you aren't horrid, you're a mother. You're a broken soul. You're a human. The bed sheets tug at my skin, and the light peers through the satin curtain, and as the plaster wears off and the bright paints flakes off, with me it carries the flesh, bone, and blood I am, and underneath it reveals the tainted, scuffled, standing egg shell paint, revealing the flesh, bone, and blood I will always be.
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