your mother can't seem to look you in the eyes anymore.
she always said that you looked like your father ( "you have his eyes , and his anger. I could never forget his anger." ) and sometimes you catch her touching the picture on the mantelpiece. it makes you feel used somehow , because you know she only kept you around because you look so much like him and after 17 years , she still can't let him go.
That's why the first time you walk into a bar ( your underage , but you don't care, the barman knows your underage , bout he doesn't care either and really who in this world cares anymore?) and you see them for the first time , you're confused.
Because this , this is how your mother looks when she sees the picture in the mantelpiece, and how your teacher looks when she sees you and how your sister looks when she takes another hit of drugs that seem to snuff out more than the feelings and slow down more than reality.
And they're beautiful , you know it , and you still know it when you're in the bathroom with them hours later , begging them to carve you out like Michelangelo carved out David , and leave you there hours later.
And you think that this is the last time ( and the first time ) but it happens again and again and again and you stop telling yourself that you come down to the bar every Friday night for their killer margaritas and that you're actually coming there for the men.
And it's why you understand ( later , much later, because it takes time for a wound to heal ) why your mother keeps that photo of your father on the mantelpiece when all you can remember of him are bruises and black eyes.
———
Not gonna lie , kinda shitty. I'm just lacking inspiration.
