• By razor?
    Nah, it’s the way of the amateurs.
    By gun point?
    Nah, that’s too dramatic.
    Is there any other way?

    I am sick and tired
    Of being shaped into
    That “perfect” child you want so dearly, Mother.
    I know you care for me
    For me to be the best.
    But it’s just too much.
    I can’t take this anymore.

    The same thing every day:
    You yell, I scream.
    Then those ungrateful memories
    That horrible childhood past
    I asked why Brother snapped
    And you told me I was too young.

    And I remember icing my arm
    Until it was back to its normal state
    The marks of anger on my arm.
    Sat on, beaten on
    Crying, sobbing bursting!

    I know, Mother, that you love me so.
    You’ve made me stronger but you’ve made me weak
    Harder to trust, to love anyone
    Harder to live my life.

    Then reality rushes back
    And I spot the kitchen knife.
    Should I do it now?
    No, I will wait
    Wait until what happens
    Because today is just the beginning, Mother.
    The beginning of my end.