I never really understood why many say 'words can cut', until I felt my thirteen-year-old heart being cleanly sliced in two.
It felt like the sudden shattering of a delicate glass figurine. The sting of her sharp words echoed and they replayed in my head like a broken tape recorder, a weight too heavy pressing down on my weak adolescent body. The wound of feeling misunderstood and unloved tore open and my heart bled, its blood pure, lacking of love, warmth and emotion.
I felt empty.
It felt like the world crashed down onto me, shattering my delicate soul. Shattering my youthful heart into a million fragments.
The fire in my heart extinguished, leaving nothing but a trail of soot and dust as its once-radiant glow fades and dims, leaving my soul to rot in its own shadows again.
Simple words. Sharp knife.
In the heat of the moment, fury enveloped me, and I opened my mouth to say eight words I wished I never had said.
"You're not the perfect mother. I hate you!"
"You young, reckless disappointment." was all my mother said in response, her voice like a sadistic lullaby, before I was knocked into momentary oblivion.
Words were hurled at me like weapons, each one aimed to wound and belittle. Her mouth said nothing but venomous tirades that echoed through the halls and tormented my ears. Her hand did nothing but deliver repeated slaps across my small face, painting it in a gentle shade of painful redness. My vision was blurring as my eyes brimmed with unwanted tears. My world was spinning. I was tired. So tired. All I could hear besides the cracking of my heart were all the volatile words of blame she threw onto my shoulders.
Something about how I didn't turn out the way she wanted me to.
Something about how my father didn't die for this.
Something about his suicide being my fault.
I was four. I didn't do any fucking thing.
But it's always my fault in the end, isn't it?
When she finally pried her hands off my aching and tear-streaked face, I scrambled to my feet, hot tears stinging my bruised cheeks as I made a beeline for my room.
YOU ARE READING
; the heart's way
Poetry|| My one-track heart. Do you want it? Do you want to cradle it in your hands, before crushing it within your palm? I don't care. I don't care what you do to it. As long as I get what I want, all shall be well. || cover art by Lyckaaaa on weibo!
