You are not my looking glass.

The problem with my mother and I is that neither of us responds the way the other one wants.
And the only reason she worried about me getting out of bed on those lonely days was because she wanted some control over something. And she needed a babysitter.
I can see that.
And the reason your back hurts so much is because you put too much pressure on your heals when you walk. Your footsteps are loud and heavy. I can hear your anger coming down the stairs. You're voice barely masques it. The way you carry yourself emits your bitterness. Stiff, as if that will keep the pain from pouring out. But no, it leaks with every word you speak to me. And until you recognize it, it will just continue to burn you. Incessant in your ignorance. And Someday when you need me, I will not treat you like a joke. Because none of this is funny.