me and my mother,
were the same and excruciatingly different.
like a dried sponge in the sun,
that I'm sure was once soft, once useful.
is now hard, cores and unforgiving.
moulded to the shape it was rested in.
my mother is the sun, i am the sponge.
i am empty.
"He who cannot forgive breaks the bridge over which he himself must pass".--George Herbert
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