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To Kill Your Mother

Poetry By: Kathleen Megquier

Well, I didn't pass, I'm one out of three seniors that didn't pass that fucking exam. I bet I'm the only one that isn't addicted to crack or has a kid too. I've never felt this much of a loser since I lost my virginity to Ron. And that sucked. That really sucked, sliding down a door crying suck. Self affliction looks appeasing, after the extremely dramatic car ride with my mother. She made it all about her naturally. I thought so certainly that I was going to pass, I envisioned the new hair cut and the much needed wax my mother would fund once she heard the good news about me finally passing my god for sake ECA. Yet, the alternative was always in the back of my mind as well, thinking of Alex and how barely last year he told me I wasn't going to graduate. Mark too, even though that dude does in fact have a kid and could very well be addicted to crack. It was a two against one scenario on one of my Facebook status updates. They told me how I never worked for anything, and that I wouldn't graduate. I later made a retort on another Facebook status bashing Alex, my ex, on how he never leaves the high school realm of dating being almost twenty and all, and ridiculing Mark for impregnating a fifteen year old when he being almost twenty as well. Guess the joke's on me boys. Self affliction does sound tremendous right now. The truth of the matter is that this time I really did try. The Mark/Alex time was the previous before this actual time, where if I had a coin in my pocket, I'd bet that I would in fact pass. I didn't, just like the time before. I'll never pass. Today has me reflecting on a lot of things, like how my relationships never pass four months, how I never pass a couple weeks before I fuck someone. I guess, I'm everything everyone elaborates me as, the only real difference that separates me from all the other loser skanks, is that I can write about it in a semi classy, some say pretentious, way for all to gawk at. Still a loser skank none the less. I'm just like Cayla, Selena, what have you. Notice, the names I mentioned are both underclassman. That's another reflection all on it's own, my maturity level. Maybe, Will's right, maybe I am immature, otherwise, I wouldn't be classified with these mega dirties. Though he contributed to most of my dirtiness I must say. I didn't mind being perceived as a super skank in the eyes of my current surroundings, but I wanted to be a super skank that at least graduated, looks like I lost my purity and my smarts all in the span of two years. Self affliction, self affliction, self affliction! It's ether that or get incredibly drunk or stoned with an unattractive party and give the whole round table a meaningless fuck. I'd much rather cut. Too bad mega bitchzilla is in the kitchen guarding the knifes. What's worse is that Mrs. S is more of a mother than my own mother. When I started balling in the hallway after she told me the news of my failure to pass the ECA, she painted all these pretty pictures of different alternatives, wavers from the school, summer preparation for the next time the exam is held. My mother walks in with her pompously pink sweater on, her first words are 'Should I walk out the door now?'. My tear stained face expecting some sort of shit ass response dribbling out of the wench's mouth. Mrs. S trying to keep all my emotions stable, my mother tearing them from my feeble arms and making them dance the dance of insanity. She always does that to me. If there's one woman that can put my face in mascara charcoal it's Michelle Marie Megquier. She had my almost normal face twisted in seconds. Mrs. S tried to convince her into all these positive outcomes that could happen out of this shit luck of a circumstance, My mom wasn't haven't any of it. Normally I think my mom has cutesy like features, today she looked like a grubby old man. After Mrs. S looked as if she was waiting to receive a hug from me, I awkwardly turning away, because I don't like to be touched when I cry. Probably because of my mother's brutalization whenever I'm in tears over my unaccomplished ass. She bid us good luck, the car ride begins and my mother is stone silent, I start to vent and confide, tears streaming down my face all over again. My mother gets the biggest blow she can find and then POW. Smacks me with the accusation that I didn't try enough, that I didn't work hard enough, mainly because I did not pass. No hope, no spiritual uplifting, just beaten with words that caused me anguish. I started yelling back, I mean, for some reason, no matter how low my self esteem gets, I still have the energy, or the want to scream, maybe it's a defense mechanism, that's crossed my mind, but whenever anyone that I find at least mildly intelligent tries to stab me with their words, I make sure I get my biggest and harshest out. My mother and I go at it daily. It just made me so upset that she'd think I didn't try this time, with all the math courses, the mild help from Lisa, being Mr. W's dog, soaking up every instruction he gave me on passing the ECA. I wanted to kill her. I wanted to kill everyone, and most of all myself.

- Kathleen

Submitted:Jun 5, 2012    Reads: 20    Comments: 0    Likes: 1   

You laugh maliciously.
I harp on the dreams that someday I'll escape you.
Dreams don't always come true.
Your smile is snide.
Whatever made me lose the shriveled up existence of remainder pride, I blame you.
You are my reflection, you are my ever growing foe, I hate you so much, that the thought of showing you how truly sincere I am would allow all around to self combust.
A mellowed out version is simply this.
If I was capable of gouging your eyes out, shaving your head, and then plucking each and everyone one of your eyelashes out, I would.
The universe should of taken you instead of him.
He was everyone's perfectly placed patch in the quilt of kindness to all whom knew him.
You're just this awful creature he felt sorry for, this never ending charity case, that had a slim chance of becoming a gift, but you blew it.
You made a massacre out of me.
I've killed every inch of myself emotionally.
If only I could return the favor, too bad your time of death was long before mine.
I want him back, I want you to shut your fucking trap.
Constantly illustrating these grim pictures of me and all that come around.
Using your strengthen vocals for evil rather than just simply good, like your husband would.
It's so easy to hate myself, I'm all you've conceived, I'm the future cycle, the anguish that beholds the next victim, the next beastly monster to soon be created.
I bet that makes you real happy inside, all your rotting inners just basking in delight.
Oh how I want to kill the center that revives you, that makes you so tremendously trifling.
You've destroyed what use to be pretty within me, now it's slowly reaching the outside.
I'll be old and wrinkled, resembling a mirror image of what you are now, while you are 13 feet underground.
I won't let that happen you see?
I won't become you, and I know for certain you've already evolved into me.
I'll kill us both before it ever reaches that far.
Who am I kidding?
It's one thing leaving scares on peoples' hearts and robbing the metaphorical illusion of the cars that help our escapes.
But killing?
Though thrilling as it may be at the time, to take one's life?
A action that most likely should be thought out twice.
I could never do it.
It shall be easier to just end what's throbbing, what's beating now, inside of me.
I'm my own misery.
You're content with your callous features, I want to slice up my skin and flush it down.
Bleed out before the authority comes to claim it attempt.
I want the motive to be carried out. Forever doubting the option to stop breathing, it shall forever be an alternative of mine,


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