WOOF!

I still flinch when men move too quickly, or when I’m caught off guard. I still haven’t forgiven my childhood. I fuck and smoke to forget that I’m a human being I’m not proud of. I’m not happy to be me, I don’t think I ever have been. That shit is stressful.

My mom used to cry to me when I was young. I mean, really young. She used to talk to me about how much she hated my father, how if he hit her (or me) one more time he was “gone.” She would look to me for wisdom a seven year old just wouldn’t ever have. I have carried the weight of her sorrows with me since I can remember.

I have work ethic... I have dreams, desires, and goals. I get whiplash every time my brain decides I’ll never accomplish anything. I think about razorblades, tall buildings, and pills. I give myself even more mental anguish, knowing I’d never have the guts to actually do any of that.

But what if one day I did? It’s early enough that it wouldn’t be so hard for people to get over. My mom barely calls anymore, I haven’t even seen any of my family in two years. Pug would go live with Ray, get fat, and be happy. She’d probably forget about me in a month.