Mother
Your harsh words are like swords piercing my soft cardiovascular muscle. Your angry demanour instigates the rebelliousness within my feeble soul. To the woman too proud to admit when she has wronged, too selfish to take fault and excuse herself.
I love you, but it is not the love you can accept. It is not the love you learned to convey and to demand in return. Please don't chide me for not knowing how to love by your standards, for one shall never love quite like another.
It is a burning love- sometimes hurting both the giver and the receiver. It is a not-always-present love. But I put all I can into it, so at least appreciate and love me for that, if be it for nothing else. I yearn for a mother's love. I crave your love. For who I am, I can account to you.