They plot again

   
   "They plot again"
   
   In two days, they will come for me.  I am beaten and bruised.  Face bloodied, at this moment.  Just showered my mother, changed her, anointed her with lavender, brushed her hair, her teeth, clipped her nails, and placed her, ever so gently, in bed--my dog rests next to her, not her husband, and my face bleeds today, because of his hands.
   Wasn't the notary fraud enough?  Or the caretakers bullying me and throwing my mother around, dropping her in the shower, offering my dog peach pits, with those grins?  Then, the false medical reports, and they know.  All to rid themselves of an elderly woman and her disabled son; plus, a little dog too.
   I watch as he sits and drinks his whiskey, smiling.  Plotting.  Again, I took my mother to the Church today, taking her out of the car, up to the Virgin Mary statue, asking for help.  I take her out, talk to her, and they instruct me not to talk to her.  I can't talk to my own mother?  That's what he has told me, many times.  
   So, I wait.  They'll come.  And I still love God, through it all.  I never complain about my life, nor pity my mother.  I just love God, and I love my mother.  While they have millions, and I eat out of cans, along with my mother, feeding her, making her smile, and they hate me for it.  They always did.
   It isn't enough that I'm diseased and in physical pain?  It isn't enough that I'm shy?  It's only enough to shuffle the money, shuffle the law, and make sure I don't get up this time.  And for what?  To make me feel shame once again?  To make me feel guilty at the illusion they fabricate?  What are my crimes?  I'm the one with scars, not them.  I'm the one that bleeds, not them.  How much longer will their lies persist, until . . .