i punished myself, mother,
for i know you will never hit me
with a broom.
i learned how to do that to myself,
so when i do a mistake,
i won’t have to tell you
for you to scold me
for i can discipline myself.
but mother, sometimes i do more than what
i was supposed to do to my own body.
but i won’t tell you still, because i don’t
want for you to tell me to stop.
no parent will ever discipline me this way,
and this is the only thing that i can do to
prevent myself from doing the same
mistake; i will remember the pain,
how it hurts and burns,
and how i don’t want for it to happen
again, so i won’t do something stupid again.
but now it feels more like a satisfaction
than a disciplinary action.
and i won’t stop hitting myself with the
broom,
not until i finally learn my lesson,
but until i finally feel contented with the
throbbing swollen limbs of mine.
mother,
is this love?
YOU ARE READING
Found This Book Somewhere In The Forest
Poezja"Talk to my soul later midnight, when the moon's at its peak. That's the only way of communication that I know, because my physical lips will stutter if I told you about how I want to tear my human skin apart and go out."
