the smell of the laundry detergent my mother used on my clothes, still makes me feel something almost instantly when i smell it, and i don't know how else to cope with it, other than handling everything dead on as if it were to relieve the pressure in my chest when my mother used to scream my name as if it were the most wretched thing that had ever come out of her mouth.
mother, why?
why do you purposely make me feel as if i did the most wrong by living, you made me feel that even getting out of bed was wrong, and i couldn't clean my room, and that was wrong to.
to wrong for me to live with you, and i took one pill, two pills, three.
i was reading the one book you told me not to, in which i did anyways just so i could make you angry,
angry was all i could be, and i don't mean to be offensive mom, but when i told you that i wanted to die, you didn't cry, you sent me back to bed.
back to bed i was and i couldn't stop thinking, you came into my room to check on me, and i screamed at the top of my lungs because you scared me, scared me.
that's all you did was scare me, but little did i know that would be the worst year of my life.
life was where i hated to be, and i suppose that isn't even the worst part, the worst part was the empty words you gave me and the broken promises that you fed me.
promise you, i wont lie.
maybe then i'll break you.
YOU ARE READING
A Constellation of Thoughts
PoesíaYou were a constellation, but you were also mine.
