My mother’s whole life has been like one of those trashy MTV shows I used to watch in secret. Her mother—my grandmother—worked multiple jobs. She moved my mom and uncle from one dingy motel room to the next, smoked cigarettes, and let the scent linger beneath her nails. She didn’t have time for her daughter. Much like her predecessor, my momma filled in the gaps with cigarettes and sex. She’d been desensitized to everything from a young age; to her mother, these habits were seen as pastimes.

I remember listening to Momma tell me bits and pieces of her childhood. She was a chubby, freckled redhead, and, according to her, that was the ugliest combination of the 90s. Little girls cackled and called her every word for fat their juvenile brains could think of. She only felt pretty when her mom dolled her up and took her out for double dates with men twice her age. As she got older, her awkward ridges smoothed over, and the girls of her childhood came around. But the men were always there

Not much is known about my father, except for the fact that he’s a good liar. I see pictures of him as a kid once in a blue moon, whenever my mom decides to show me. We have the same ridge beneath our lips, the same rounded jawline. Sometimes I catch my mom’s gaze lingering on my face too long. I always know why. My parents met when my momma was eighteen. To her, he looked promising—tall, dark, intelligent, protective. He said he was twenty. She believed him. In him, she saw hope and stability. In her, he saw an easy target.

I tell people my father didn’t stick around, but I know that’s not entirely true. He still forces himself into my stream of consciousness. My momma once said I look exactly like my father during one of our arguments. Every once in a while, I search him up on Facebook and grieve over our striking resemblance. To me, he is calculated affection and explosive anger. The more I dwell on it, the more I realize the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. My anger scalds my cheeks. My promises are sporadically kept. Sometimes I find myself ready to hurt others to get what I want.

My mother is everything I hate about myself. We spill our guts to get what we want, and we explode when it doesn’t work. Our tears grate against our waterlines; we are pretty only sometimes. The faults before me have become my own. Even during my happiest moments, there is a collision within me—father and mother, hunter and hunted, them and me.

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