My mother hates my friend, Laura because of all the digs at me she makes. It’s not that I don’t notice. I can handle criticism. I know she can’t because I’ve seen her crumble and sob, as if cruelty was something unknown to her.
“That girl has a thornbush for a heart,” my mother said.
She meant she was cruel, but the image stayed with me. I pictured wounds being stabbed from the inside, and her needing to spit the thorns out.
I take the insults but I know it won’t help. In the end, the thorns will get her.
“That girl has a thornbush for a heart,” my mother said.
She meant she was cruel, but the image stayed with me. I pictured wounds being stabbed from the inside, and her needing to spit the thorns out.
I take the insults but I know it won’t help. In the end, the thorns will get her.
