Just Like You

When your oldest daughter strolls in at 3 AM

looking like hell and stinking of smoke,

eyes dull and quiet,

hair lank and low,

you think you know where she goes.

With the sad in her eyes and the burn in her lungs,

you know that she's just like you.

You said it wouldn't happen,

but she's got the same melancholy tongue,

the same frayed, world-weary shoes.

She's just like you and you want to beg for her forgiveness.

You want to hold her close,

but you don't because she's just like you.

You know that she wants what you want -

to just be left alone.