You need to tell your mother what you feel.
I see your face and recollect how well
your uncle spoke when he made his appeal.
You need to tell.

I used to rage. You should have heard me yell
when I was middle-aged. My wrath was real,
my love was strong; I felt and couldn’t quell.

But then my darling told me that my spiel
of words hurt more than father-fisted hell.
I had to alter then. I had to heal.
You need to tell.


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