i live with a criminal. she sits in the corner of my room and watches me at night with her eyes wide open. i hear her deafening screams filling up the place in the daylight, but i can't stop her – she's a criminal, and i'm nothing but a weak feather of hers flying back and forth between her destructive fingers. she wouldn't hesitate to take my life away more than she already has; she kills then blames the victim – and, in most cases, acts like the victim. i live with a criminal, i see her standing behind my mirror mimicking my every move. i see her in my eyes and i see myself in her tears. she isn't always this way. she helps me when i'm sick and gives me advice, but she gets really possessive. she follows me everywhere and refuses to let go of me. she says she's just worried about me, but who am i to know. everybody tells us we're the same, but i don't see it. i'm nothing like her; they don't know she's a criminal who has taken my soul away and ripped it at every single fucking edge over and over again till i lost it, then accused me of causing her pain, then kissed me where it hurt and made me feel stupid and dramatic. but i can't leave her... she's a part of me and i'm a part of her, we've always belonged together.
– they were right, i see it now.
— MOM, something i found in my daughter's journal the other day.
(if any of you didn't get it, i wrote this about myself from my "daughter's" point of view. well if i had one lol)
YOU ARE READING
as quiet as a fire
Poetryyou have my heart and mind in your hands now. i hope you have a safe trip. but read at your own risk, i can't promise you'll come out alive.
