Proper Etiquette

You smile politely when you see her walk across the room;

You lie through your teeth and say, "it's nice to see you again."

You swallow a cringe as she leans in for an awkward hug.

You mask a shiver when her partner offers his sweaty hand.

You compliment her slutty dress and her new tattoo, and

You fawn over the newest color of her straw-like, ruined hair.

You try to look through it all, searching for the person she used to be.

You hope against hope she's still in there... somewhere.

You tell her, "I'm fine," when she asks how you've been.

You know damn well she doesn't really care.

You return the well-rehearsed question in kind;

You try not to roll your eyes when she sighs, "Well..."

You stand there, trapped, for what feels like hours, as

You listen to her bitch and moan about how the world is against her.

You keep your jaw locked shut and bite your tongue;

You nod and smile and hum, feigning your interest.

You screw your smile on tight, and clench your fists by your sides.

You try not to think about what she's done;

You try not to remember how she broke your mother's heart.

You bite back a snarl as she flits off to her next target without a care.

You hold in a scream as she brushes past your mother without a glance.

You remind yourself - once again - that you still love her;

You struggle to convince yourself that you don't hate her.

You shuffle off with a sigh to help your mother with the food;

You need a breath of fresh air, to waft away her toxicity.

You keep it together gracefully for as long as you can --

Your mother raised at least one of you to be a lady, after all.