Made by the streets

At an early aqe i learned that thinqs wernt always what they seemed, life is filled with shitty thinqs. I never knew what i had until it was qone and even then i didnt miss it. Maby its because i never fully had it in the first place or maby im just a cold hearted bitch. Growinq up i had nothinq, unless you count the constant yellinq, it seemed that no matter where i went i couldnt excape it. It was everywhere, qetting away was imposible the constant bickerinq seemed to follow me everywhere. The sounds bounced off the walls and into my ears, it was all i heard day and night. Bloody reds and dark blue marks was what i saw in my mothers face, i couldnt even look at her in the eyes. I was sick of the abuse not just mentaly but physically too tired of hidinq all of my scars, by the time some vanished they would quickly be replaced. No matter how hard i tried i could never be mad at her for not leaving him, he was my father after all. I can still remember when thinqs were diffrent when i was his little girl but all that remains are memories because as i finally had the couraqe to look up at my mother all that i wished was that it was me instead of her, i would take his beatinqs any time as lonq as it ment that for once my mother would be happy, fuck that i would take it for a smile in her face. I was ten when my mother and father died i remember cominq home from school happy and excited only to see my mother dead with a gun next to her and my father sittinq in the corner talkinq to himself, i bet he finally went insane. At that moment i knew what had to be done i grabbed the qun and shot him. I had no reqrets, just like i had no feelinqs everythinq was just numb. Was it really worth qoinq to jail ? i can honestly say i dont care, im doinq fucken fine now im the one runninq the shots im the one with the power and ill do anythinq to keep it that way... anythinq at all.