Intentions.

You raised two suicidal
kids. One who questions
why she's stuck inside
a perfidious body,
one who plants the
roots of her suffering
six feet under.

I'm not always mad
at you. Though I still
sip bitterness from
stale tea leaves,
I've learned you
meant well.

But intentions aren't
enough, they simply
aren't. Not when I,
like her, feel tethered
to a life we never
asked for.