“A Vulture’s Daughter”

She screeches and squawks like some angry bird

Whose beak has never been closed.

And in the morning,

She crows,

Like some drunken vulture.

But nobody really knows why.

And everything is a battle in this dark, dark war

That she is hellbent on winning.

She always fires first.

Incessantly screaming out, flailing her wings

Until black feathers coat the floor.

Reckless, careless, entitled, and starving.

Her mother is kind but she isn’t present.

I noticed this when her mother spent more time on her hair than

Speaking to her vulture of a daughter.

I notice this every time that that vulture of a daughter flings herself haphazardly

into the arms of anything that will hold her,

a temper tantrum seeking love and affection.

But most of all, I notice this

When that vulture of a daughter could not be a mother.

Reckless, careless, broken.

She starves.

Yes, it seems she is the daughter

of a vulture

afterall.

– K. Dawn, 2018.

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