Broken, Beautiful & Black ( A poem about mother/daughter bonding)

My mother and I bonded over broken glass tables, broken glass dishes
Thrown in rage that he left for us to pick up the pieces
We would sit and pick up glass shards
Pretending that the reflection was beautiful  
Finding solace in the lack of solutions to all of the problems we had.

"Why don't we just leave?"

"I can't, he makes me happy"

How can you be happy with someone who obviously hates you
And hates me even more for I am a louder, untamed version of you
She would tell me it's like when you took that boy's shoe and made him chase you around school just to trip over a backpack that you didn't realize could be so heavy
Breaking your arm
True Story "You're making my insurance go up!" she yelled
But it seems being broken was the only way to get your attention
So what else am I to do
My mother being broken was the only way to get his attention
So what else was she to do
but stay
he would comfort her, licking the wounds that he inflicted
As I sit in disgust
He say
Stay in a child's place
I say my place is with my mother
Because that is in fact the place I came from
So you step to her and you step to me
And although my mother and I despised each other
Being made black and blue through words is different than through fists
But he seems to think they are
One in the same

that we are one in the same
But you can't bond with me through my mother's brokenness
It is because of men like you that this is our only form of affection
Celebrating our sins, covering up our contempt, bandaging all the broken parts of ourselves until we are a walking advertisement for band aid, I mean rite aid, but if only that was our first aid
My mother tells me the more I speak the more she hurts
but I refuse to be quiet
if I speak loud enough and I'm confrontational enough
he and she will realize that we are two different people
if he wants to come for me he can come for me because I will defend myself just as well as I defend her

When we finally left
It became a habit to run from all of the problems that he or she and I created
My mother and I bonded over brokenness
Broken glass liquor bottles, broken over her broken heart and/or head, broken mirrors
As we pick up the glass shards
Pretending or remembering when we were once beautiful
Until finally pulling the glass out of our skin
Didn't hurt anymore