ma #

ma, you’re sweet at times,
and kind on occasion,
but those fleeting moments get buried beneath the weight of all that’s wrong,
lost in the constant storm of your disdain.
i can’t explain it—
it’s just bad, this haze i live in.

you say the sight of me gnaws at your sanity,
you curse me with a routine venom,
you tell me to vanish,
that my existence was a cruel error,
that i should leave and never return.
your words—they carve into me, deeper than you’ll ever know,
because i love you.
i wish i didn’t.
i hate how much it haunts me,
how much your hatred clings like an unbearable shadow.
you loathe me.
i love you.
and it twists me in ways i can’t untangle.

should i end it, then?
would you find peace at last, standing beside my body,
as dad and the uncles carry me to the pyre?
would it ease the weight on your mind, the pressure i seem to cause,
as you hear the crackling fire devouring the last of me?
would it bring you joy, holding the urn that bears my remains,
knowing i am finally gone?

you hate my friends,
you say i lack judgment,
but when i try to trust you instead,
you dismiss me like a burden,
like an afterthought.
every word i say earns your wrath,
every answer is met with scorn,
and still, you ask why i’ve drifted so far,
why i no longer appreciate all that you’ve done.

should i sever all ties then?
would it make you feel better if i had no one to turn to,
if i begged for your attention even more,
while you continued to ignore me?
should i stop speaking to anyone?
should i grow cold to the world,
become the lifeless thing you want me to be?
would that please you, ma?

you no longer hit me—
not since your strength faltered.
but your words, ma,
they strike harder than any hand ever could.
they tear at something fragile inside me,
but you never see,
or maybe you do,
but you don’t care.
you never care.
if i breathe,
if i break,
if i vanish,
it doesn’t matter to you.

should i stop speaking altogether?
would you prefer me mute, a shadow in the corner,
following every command without a word?
or should i shut you out too,
ignore your demands like you ignore my pain?
should i show you the scars, ma?
but how could i?
they aren’t on my skin, those healed long ago—
you never saw them,
you never cared.

you mock the way i look,
you call me repulsive,
and when i start to care about how i appear,
you laugh at me for even trying.
why bother, you say.
i’ll always be this grotesque thing in your eyes,
unworthy, unwanted.

should i take acid to my face, ma?
should i peel the skin from my bones?
would you like me better then, when i become something truly monstrous?
you call me hideous every day—
should i show you what it really looks like?
do you have the guts to face it?
you certainly don’t have the heart anymore—
not for me.

it hurts,
and you never forget to remind me that i deserve every wound,
every scar,
every bit of this aching loneliness.
you despise my tears,
my laughter,
my silence,
my very breath.

should i leave, ma?
should i pack my bags and go?
tonight? tomorrow? the day after?
would you even care?
how long would you search before it becomes too much trouble,
before you stop and let me go?
would you even look for me at all?

you despise me.
you hate me.
and now,
i’m starting to care less and less.