You deceived us daily, sprinkled, calculated clues over your lies,
Made a paste of your depression, spread its dull dry crust, over our lives.
Decided you were too ill to get up, to raise even a hand to help yourself out of of bed
With eyes closed, lips pressed tight, hands folded in stiff repose, your game had a razor edge.
Below the surface, you paddled tirelessly, always improving your lot.
Chipping away at each child, willing to steal their very soul for any cheap and shallow plot.
But when bone is reached, and all is flayed, ugly and flawed,
And your children blunder blind into the world, through a wide flung open door,
What then desperate lady? what then? you once screeching, heartless shrew.
Because then, out of the many, you loved not even one, now not even one, can love you.
Trish 1991
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