I look in the mirror and see my mother.

I see her in my gestures too—

the disorder she passed down, or a few.

She taught me hatred.

Not toward other people—never.

She taught me to hate myself,

burned it into me with every cigarette

she pressed between her fingers,

smoke simmering into my skin.

My mother let me know I was a mistake.

She told me to pray to God,

to beg Jesus to forgive me for existing—

for the sin I was born from

and the sins I was destined to commit.

I see my father in my temper,

in that same clenched rage, the guilt that gnaws.

I’ll never let it go.

Like him, I’m too stubborn—

too consumed by anger

to keep it from spilling into everything I touch.

Every action, every consequence.

I will never let anyone in,

though I offer myself freely to others.

I don’t deserve help.

I gave up on that a long time ago.

And I still don’t know who I took after more.

But like Mama always told me,

I pray.

And I pray it wasn’t her.

—Janie Lyvon