It is inevitable isn’t it?

That I am a reflection of her
And it doesn’t matter

If I speak in a different tone
Or change my clothes
Or dye my hair

I have her eyes
And the rage she keeps inside.

I will forever be loved
But never liked.

Isn’t it inevitable?

That my mother doesn’t want to grow up
To be my abuela

But acts just like her anyways

Carries the generational trauma
On her bruised shoulders
And says it doesn’t bother her

And my mom keeps trying to convince herself
That the pattern of speech
And way she talks with her hands
Doesn’t come from her.

Isn’t it inevitable?

That my mother is an extension of my grandma
And I am an extension of my mother.

We have the same eyes
And the rage we keep inside.

We will forever love
But never like
Each other.