Mother, you always give,

and I take and build,
structuring my worth
with gratitude to your grace

but like brown leaves on a tree
I grow less wary of my past
and the architect in me comfortable
my pride takes me to the sky.
I don’t see you anymore,
only false privilege.

you look for the fruits of your labor,
but find nothing.
I can’t speak over your voice,
the violent eruptions terrify me,
and I don’t take responsibility.

With no choice,
I still live with you,
tasting pollution in the air
with no hope for recovery.
And I blame you.