My Daughter, My Self

Sometimes,
Death comes as a relief for others.
Even when one wallows in the self-pity of a pre-suicidal mood,
It hits one –
“There is no one to cry for me…
But you –
My daughter.

I live in you –
My beauty, my wasted youth, my body, my anger…

I am sorry my darling
For bequeathing you this inheritance
Of unsolvable debts…
Of madness, hateful memories and stolen youths…
But, I am grateful
For the solitary mourning
In my abandoned grave.

My daughter, my self."