Darth Mom

 I feel the pressure of your aggressively passive presence

like a disturbance in the Force.

You never say what you really mean; I can sense your spite

a bitter bite of blight, the essence of a sour disposition.

 

You haunt this house, not really living.

Judge, jury, and executioner in a week-worn nightgown.

You’re my straitjacket, my fitting room mirror;

I never want to see myself through you. 

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