This isn’t a happy story. It doesn’t entail a suburban home with one or two loving parents. It doesn’t come with any warmth or nurturing, no this story is dark and cold. It’s full of misery and empty vodka bottles, prescription pills and razor blades. A broken woman cries alone in her bitterness, resentful of her choices and the way her life turned out. Men who said they were true and unconditional were long gone and somehow all the hurt and all the ugliness fell on a daughters small shoulders. She was the bad thing, she was to blame, something sick a twisted, something evil. She was the cause of her mother’s misery, never appreciating never loving enough. But when morning came she was her prodigy, a beautiful soul with so much potential and talent. Lost keys and a few sips later she wished she’d gotten an abortion, what a nightmare to end up with a kid like that. But they’re just words she said, move past it act like it didn’t hurt. The cycle continues. Years of tears and apologies, begging and pleading to no longer be degraded and hurt by cruel words, every time it seemed like the name calling and the yelling would stop, another sip and she’s on another roll.
Slut, devil, pathetic, bitch, retard, sick, fucked up, mistake, disappointment.
Words spit with venom. She doesn’t mean it, right?
It makes you wonder, doesn’t it. How a child who grows up in a confusion of love and hate would be able to decipher between the two? and when her first love started leaving bruises on her skin it was just playful. When another manipulated her with cold silent treatments and a nasty attitude she knew he had to be the one…right? Maybe.
She doesn’t want to live past 27, she mistakes pain for love because in the morning things were always better. She cries when she watches a father put his daughter on his shoulders at the park or when her best friends mom says she loves her. It hurts and she can’t understand what’s wrong with her, why she can never be loved that way. Why she was even born.
She thought it would make up for it by punishing herself, slicing away what made her so bad but she was only mocked. Copied. Scoffed at. Sometimes the world would spin and she couldn’t breath anymore. She wished it would all melt away but it never did.
How do you escape a hatred planted so deep you can’t cut it out, can’t burn it out, can’t scream it out. How do you know who’s good and whose bad.
How fast can you run?
One thought on “Low”
I love the way your words flow. And how each word it my brain like a bullet. I love the way your mind works and how you are able to so easily express what you’re thinking with words. I wish I could do the same. You have a wonderful talent.
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