My mother used to pinch me when she thought I lied.
And after a while, the purples were blues, the blues yellows,

the yellows greens, and eventually, my skin was just skin.
I never lied, but sometimes, to satisfy her need to find fault,

I’d say I did. She was a brilliant woman who thought
everyone was talking in gibberish, while she spoke in tongues.

I stopped trying; she never learned how to listen.
She’d invite her friends over for dinner, indulge them,

and leave the leftovers for me. She’d bring out her best wine,
hand me an empty glass, and give a small toast,

to what or for whom exactly, I never knew. I was the daughter
she didn’t want but eventually had. No one ever laughed;

I sometimes wished they did. Some days, she called me heaven-sent,
her long-lost lover, her sad maid, her lonely bastard.

There are days when she’ll refuse to bathe, and I’ll have to coax
her into the tub with something sweet to eat. She had a penchant

for cinnamon basil, peppermint, pineapple sage. She’ll see
how long she can hold her breath underwater; I’ll frantically pull

her up and she’ll scream that I wanted her dead.
Sometimes, I’ll dress her and she’ll say her clothes

make her itch and her arms are falling off,
and I’ll find her making dinner in the kitchen naked.

I go through the bins, check the bottles, read the labels,
make sure she’s not poisoning us all. I know she doesn’t mean

to do half the things she does. But sometimes,
I wonder, is loving her hating myself?