She never listens. I told her I needed to take a leak, yet she drove left and right, another right, pointing towards the rust on the edge of the car, “I think that needs fixing.” As I hold onto my bladder, about to witness a leaking.
She never listens. The edge of my lips slanted downwards. Eyes filled with the death of a soul. Arms across my waist, hugging my own body. Yet her smile so wide, it’s bigger than her face. Showing off her new dress she bought for fifty five. Complaining about the details that she would rectify.
She never listens. I saw her standing right next to her mum. She was quiet as a broken TV, not a single sound. She held her waist tighter than I did, while her mum carried along shouting at the top of her pitch. Pointing her fingers aimlessly in the air. Roaring random blab about her and the people that she cares. She just stood there and nodded like a metronome in despair. Patiently waiting yet never prep up her defense.
She never listens. She never did. Neither did her mother and neither her kids.