She got drunk again. I threw a bottle at the ground telling her to stop. She slapped me. Thinking back, I can still feel the way my cheek swelled up. I knew I was gonna have a bruise. That's what makeup is for. She got up in my face and yelled.
"You good for nothing bitch! Get out of this fucking house!"
I can still smell her alcohol breath. I can still feel the spit on my face. I can still remember that my neighbors never tried to stop any of it.
She threw a lamp at my head. She missed. I left. I will never go back. She never tried to find me. For all I know she's dead. She always will be dead to me. My own mother. Hard to even call her that.
I've been moving around since that night, the night of my 14th birthday. Not that it mattered. No one but my few friends even knew about it.
I lived couch to couch, paycheck to paycheck, friend to friend. At one point I lived with my elementary school principal. I'm not proud of it.
I make art.
I make art to save people like me.
I make art to get through the day.
It is NOT beautiful.
It is pain and suffering put on canvas.
