When my father met my mother she was a dying fire and with the little kindness that resided in his frozen heart he lit her up and for a few years they loved each other dearly
that was until I came along, my mother can never look at me without tearing up for she blames me for my father drinking himself into a pulp, and my father can never look at me for more than a minute without seeing the woman she saved from the ruins she'd put herself in.
My parents hate me not because they hate me but simply because they hate themselves so much that they find it impossible to love anyone else.
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From The Attic (poetry)
PoetryFrom the attic is a book with thoughts and qoutes and countless poems I've stringed together with the scattered words in my mind. any
