they say: the apple never falls far from the tree. and now I know why my insides are rotten. when I look in the mirror I see the same mouth that lies, the same hands that break / break / break and never heal, the same body that knows nothing but to feed itself / knows nothing but to take / take and take more.
when someone tells me that I look like you, I hear the same voice that shakes the foundations of our home. I want to call it a home, but I don’t know how to / don’t know if I can. I want to say I forgive you, take that pain and bury it further into me, take your messes and sweep them into my cavity chest, take the weight of being your daughter and let it pull me into the riverbed. I want to say I forgive you, for the earthquakes under my skin, for all of me that is so much like all of you.
they say: the apple never falls far from the tree. but was she pushed off or did she jump? sometimes I’d like to think that it was both. but I know she jumped. I heard her spine crack and I know it couldn’t have hurt more than being your daughter did. but I am still your daughter and some things cannot change.
I want to say I forgive you, but I don’t— so the apple never falls far from the tree.
FLESH AND BLOOD by laetitia k. (3/52 writings)
