1:24 P.M.

Daughters and fathers share one trait, a hatred for the mother.

"You can call my mom, but she's probably still asleep."

It is 1:24 in the afternoon and I'm in the school nurse's office.

I am eight years, five months, and twenty-three days old,

and I have already learned to resent my mother.

"I'm sorry I missed class yesterday,

I had to go to the food bank with my mom." 

The guidance counselor is grilling for answers 

about my perpetual absence.

I am eleven years, three months, and nineteen days old, 

and every day I am bathed in a washtub of loathing of my creator.

"I can't go out with you, I have to watch my mom." 

A boy just asked me out for the first time in my life 

and I have to cancel on him.

My mother has developed epilepsy, and I have to watch her.

I am fourteen years, seven months, and four days old,

and I am beginning to ice over in abominable hatred.

I hate her, as she hates her mother, and her mother hates her mother.

We are trapped in an Ouroboros state forevermore.