It is you, mother,

That stands within me,

Hands on hips,

Disapproving look.

 

It is you, mother,

That criticises,

And hurts,

And stabs inside me.

 

It is you, mother,

And once more I close the door,

And my anger builds,

Suppressed, locked in, perverted.

 

It is you, mother,

Constantly hurting,

And I, watchful, waiting,

For the next attack,

One more turn of the screw,

That keeps me locked,

In this prison of myself.