At this point, I've revised this poem so many times I can't hardly formulate my thoughts from one another.
I wish I could thoughtfully articulate one into a beautiful metaphor. I want to paint a portrait of my life so wonderfully you get tears in your eyes just reading it.
But no. Among many other things, I can't.
Just like I can't stand up for myself when my mother comes to me, raging and blaming me for the evils in the world.
The very same mother who has caused me to face a certain unknown here soon; a court room full of strangers eager to punish me for choosing my family over education.
The very same woman who, because of violent epilepsy flairs, couldn't ge left alone with my sisters for fear of their safety.
The same mother who's left bruises on my arms, legs, and once even my face, but is in delusional denial about it, because somehow I did it myself.
The same woman who seemingly loves my friends mire than me, the one who easily plans to take them away with her.
The same mother who will someday, and likely someday soon, take my sisters from me and leave to an unknown place.
I think I would be okay without her. I think I could manage. If it were up to me, I'd be perfectly fine now.
But you know, it's been only recently that I've been breaking down from stress.
Just two days ago I broke nine months of independence and returned to the cruel love affair I had with a blade.
And for what?
Just a brief reprieve from crying myself to sleep every night.
A break from the self loathing that burns in my chest every time I look in the mirror.
So I locked myself in the bathroom while she was gone and sobbed quietly in the tub to a cover of Sweet Child 'O Mine.
I etched my skin with sharp metal and watched crimson bubble up so I could temporarily forget the pain waiting for me out there....
Sometimes I wish I could stick up for myself.
Sometimes I wish I could be the one to leave.
Sometimes I wish I could prove her wrong.
But I learned at an early age that the grass is only greener on the other side because it's fertilized with bullshit.
And I know that in the near future I'm going to come home and find her gone; I know I'm going to know the meaning of regret, of remorse.
So in the meantime, I have some work to do.
While I await both trials, one for juvenile probation, the other for the right to live a semi-normal life, I need to get my shit together.
It's only a matter of time before I'm going to need another shotgun malady to solve my problems.
It should only take one moment...