#183

It's—

my mother whom I could recount best,
who cried for me the most.

She and I were more alike
than my father and I.
I hated this truth,
but still, it's the truth.
I cannot deny this.

We both have the temperament
and the same patience,
to the point that when I see myself get agitated,
I picture my mother as me
and begin to question—

would I have been able to be a better son?

I hate that
I am not.

Yet, for the life of me,
it is me, through her, that I
have hurt the most.

The reflection in her eyes
every time I—
every time she showed her love
is—

Oh! How I wish
I could relive and undo everything.

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