One push.
Another shove.
More screams,
And yells from above.
I cower away,
Not sure what to do,
And am forced to take the pain,
As you say no fault lies with you.
I've considered it.
You can probably guess what.
Suicide.
Yes, suicide.
Because each vile word you say
Leaves a cut.
You always ask what's wrong with me.
Why am I not the perfect daughter?
Why am I not perfect even with all my
Sleepless insomnia-filled nights,
My close encounters,
My social confusion,
And my anxiety problems?
Why can't I always know what you want,
When you want it?
Why can't I tell you all my secrets?
Talk with you about my social awkwardness?
You don't understand.
Why can't I always clean the house
To a literal sparkling level?
I don't know, mom.
Maybe it's something that never occurred to you.
Maybe,
Just maybe,
I don't trust you.
I don't expect you to understand,
Since of course,
You're always perfect.
I should trust you with anything.
Even after you called me names,
Threatened me,
Told me you don't want me.
After you almost made me pass out,
Almost gave me a concussion,
Could have killed me,
Just the other day.
I'm more scared of you than trustful of you,
But it's not in ways that you think.
I'm reaching the tip of my iceberg, mom.
Just one more push,
One more shove,
And maybe,
Just maybe,
I won't have to be your problem anymore.
