"i made you from my scratch, my love" my mother said as she put bandaids on my knees. she always told me to keep myself out of trouble, to keep myself out of harm, because she made me from scratch. she picked out my pieces and put me together. she built me with love and hope and pride. she put her all into my creation, and bandaged my every wound.
she had made me from scratch.
and then she damaged me.
she had been close to me. "I made you from scratch. i created you. you are MINE." she would yell as she'd slam doors in my face and throw things at me. "i have made you what you are and you disobey me?" she would yell and scream and pull at her hair, she would tell me that I ruined her life, that I was the mistake she wished most she'd never made. she would pluck at my flaws and make my confidence wear thin. she would compete with herself to break me like it was sport.
as she cut her arms and bled on our counters, she would tell me the mistakes i made and that they were the reason she would bleed. she would tell me to fix myself if i wanted to fix her, because she made me from scratch, and that was the least i could do. she made me from scratch and i now never will know how to be anything else but her creation. i pick at my pieces and look at my parts, a broken mirror on the ground is what i resemble. she may be gone, and i may not see her, but her voice still lingers, that she "made me from scratch".
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thoughtful
Poëziea collection of notes from my most vulnerable moments. please note mentions of self harm, suicidal thoughts, eating disorders/unhealthy nutritional habits, and mental illnesses may be mentioned. read at your own risk.
