Don’t tell me about how I feel about my mother. She stole from us.

And what she didn’t steal,

she shot up in her arm.
I hated her. That’s what she did to the people in her life. She made them become obsessed with
her.
I outlived her, you know. She was, what, 31 when they found her under the Brooklyn Bridge?
Shot dead in a drug deal. Bitch. I’m 31 and two months.
A lovely bitch she was. I counted the days she was around. I used to sit outside her door and
wait for her to get up. Sometimes, she didn’t wake up until four. In the winter time, it was
already dark outside.
But I waited just to watch her wash her face in the sink. Just to watch her go to the bathroom
and look at me from across the room with those bleary eyes. And in them I saw all the darkness
from the night before. Everything she lived, I saw in those eyes. Humiliation. Shame. Regret.
My God, I adored her. She moved through my little life like a mountain. Her quiet was like a
fire. Burned my father so bad he ran away and never came back. She bit my lip once to watch
me bleed. God, no wonder men killed over her. No wonder they killed her.
She loved me, didn’t she?