this is the dirty truth.

89

I was born in a world of inconsistency. I was given an opportunity to create something of myself from the moment I inhaled my first hit of air. I've gone my whole life up until this point blaming my mother for never being around, and my father for showing me love with his fists. I am to blame for who I am. I am to blame for my own insecurities, my own emotional detachment, my own need for self destruction. I've stayed in the dark parts of the room, making sure no one tries to overthrow me because no one wants to be where I am. I've been afraid of everything from a very young age. Tables remind me of the time my father slammed my mother's face into a glass table. Bunk beds remind me of my mother's dirty deeds while I was on the top bunk. My mother never told me to look, I decided to look. I need to stop looking if I know I won't be able to handle what I see.