She screeches and squawks like some angry bird
Whose beak has never been closed.
And in the morning,
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.
Yes, it seems she is the daughter
of a vulture
– K. Dawn, 2018.