She sits down next to me and we both stare
down at our hands, folded neatly in our laps.

I choose to speak first. I tell her that I am angry,
that her actions are unacceptable, that we cannot

continue on like this. She remains quiet, nods her
head subtly. This only makes me angrier. I turn

towards her and shout Say something! and she
finally looks up and meets my eyes. They are lined

with tears, which happens to be my weakness, she
knows this. I could almost believe she summoned

tears that don’t fall, to fizzle my rage into a dull
empathy. She gently takes my hands in hers and 

swears it will never happen again, that she will never
again take a pill that is poison and eats away at all

she is, that she will never say destructive, hurtful 
words that only find their way out between her lips

when she is high. And for what feels like the millionth
time, I feel our roles have been reversed; that I am

the mother and she is the daughter and I am simply
scolding her for drinking at a party she wasn’t even

supposed to have gone to in the first place. I wonder
at what point these roles become permanent, concrete,

as I fake a smile and