Hated

She will not feed herself; she’d rather sit
And starve – or scarf up candy, sodas, sweets.
But let me fix a meal, she throws a fit:
My God, she’ll die if that’s the food she eats!

She will not clean the house, nor put away
Her books, her clothes, her dishes, all her mess.
She stays abed, and sleeps throughout the day,
Then blames me for the squalid clutteredness.

The boys won’t talk to her. They’d rather play
Computer games, watch movies, text their friends.
And so she vilifies me every day:
“Force them to hear my plaints, and make amends!”

I’m hated, loathed, in every way reviled.
Yet she depends on me, just like a child.