Possessed
She thinks I don't know.
She thinks that I don't know that I hear her cry at night.
She thinks I don't know that the "grape juice" in the mug is really the liquid that is slowly breaking her down, even though she thinks it helps her.
She thinks I don't know who my real father is.
But when she is in her "happy mood", she is the one who doesn't know.
She doesn't know who she is.
She doesn't know who I am, her own daughter.
She doesn't know that I cry myself to sleep every single night, like her.
But I do know that the woman tripping on her own feet with a drink in hand and never ending tears covering her tortured face isn't my mother.
My mother, the usually strong, funny, and caring person, has now been taken over by this stranger.
A stranger possessed by red wine.