I always wonder what purpose do I serve in this world.
And after everything that I've been through, I realized that being hated by my own mother is what I do most.
To have not lived by her expectations is hell. I have my own mind but I have to be her robot. I have my own feelings but I have to disregard it all.
I have to live in order for my mother to hve something to hate.
I have to live to fulfill her desire of destroying her own child's feeling.
I can never do something right, I must obey her yet yelled.
I am not a someone, I am something she has to hate because I live.
I hate my mother, too. But not much, she and her hate are the purest things life has ever made me feel.
In a world of fake, I am glad to be hated. Despite the destruction it causes me, I am thankful that the anguish, despair, hate and pain that my mom made me feel were all genuine.
My name came from the word sorrow. So I figured I should live with it.
I have long accepted my fate. I wholeheartedly embraced it.
That I have to live to be killed. Figuratively, tho.
