First Sinner Silksong is so trans-coded to me in ways I'm too tired to explain right now. but the point is I love her
Your mother does not love you.
It's not that she never says it. It's not that she uses the wrong name for you. It's not that she addresses a face you hate with all the love for what's in her mirror.
It's that she does not talk. Ever.
Your mother is action, reaction, agony. She is nails on a chalkboard, on your soul, across your face. She is a face in a mirror and eyes that you wish never met yours.
She wants you to look at her when she wants answers of you. You can only guess at the questions, but you know every bit of you isn't what she expects. You will never be her answer.
When you first dared to ask questions of your own, you were naive enough to voice them out loud. Your mother didn't know what to make of this. (Your mother never made anything, anything real. You didn't know that then, when you were still making yourself.)
What your mother does not know, she ignores. What your mother cannot ignore, she adores. What your mother cannot ignore, she devours.
In your mother's tongue, adoration and consumption are synonyms.
Your questions were never answered, so you made your own, became your own.
Then she really hated you. And for the first time in your living memory, she wasn't silent anymore.
(Your dead memory recalls lullabies.)
(Your dead memory says that you sang them to her.)
You wore dresses, you sang, you spoke out. Your mother screamed fit to deafen you but that wasn't enough to blind you to her loss of control. You had broken her mirror and so she cursed you with your old name and bound you with your dead body in prayer that you would rot.
Your corpse had been your prison for longer than you'd been alive.
You would never die again so easily.























