I really hate birthdays,
I wake up to a yelling mother already in a fuss.
She barely has time to say hello.
"You've really messed up" she growls and slams her bedroom door.
I'm left alone staring at a screen of words that don't help.
Down stairs are only perpetual annoyances if ignorant chatter
It's better to cry in my room anyway.
Brush your hair. Brush your teeth. Make yourself decent.
It's hard with the stains if tears burning into your cheeks.
She slams and yanks and yells and screams.
She doesn't notice my blaring pain.
His pants are covered in dog fur and that's the last straw.
She doesn't understand she is right in front of me.
She angrily remarks over every little thing
It's too much for me to stop from breaking.
She drives Ian to school.
And I cry.
She drops him off.
And I weep.
She drives us to school.
And I sob.
Se doesn't say anything.
And it hurts.
More than anything
It hurts.
Happy birthday to me.
