Grievance spills from tongue like summer rain,
careless words that weren't supposed to last.
Come dawn, they'll vanish, washed away again,
while I remain to scrub the stains you've cast.

I've become the keeper of your cruelty,
the archivist of what you won't atone,
carrying the weight of your words carelessly
while you walk on, unburdened and alone.

I want to be mad, but rage has worn me thin,
and yet you are always given swift reprieve.
The scale will balance on the day I win,
and maybe then you'll see what I've received.

That day you'll reflect and finally see
the fervent ways you've prayed I would change,
how you've tried to mould me endlessly
into something malleable, something tame.

I am your flesh and the fruit of your womb,
but just as Eve was born from Adam's rib,
you'll never hear the harm beneath the bloom.