Cruelty
April 22
I use to write a lot
I don’t anymore, maybe I should
Writing to me now, is sore, it makes me tired. Tired because I never really get anywhere, it doesn’t go anywhere, it’s all just inward. It reverts back to me
Writing is an ache to me now, reaching out and never getting even the wind to blow past your hand. It’s just nothingness. An ache that has nowhere to go.
I keep thinking about my mother. She sits on the top of my head. I ask her the same things over and over again and I never get an answer because she never really ever speaks to me. She just sits there, on my brain, with no face and no hood explanation as to why it had to be like this.
I’m getting older and all I must do is bite so hard against my own teeth. Everyone’s finding love and creating families or even making stupid wrong decisions. And all I can think about is who I am.
Yes! Call it self pity, call it lazy and unprogressive but I can’t get over it.
My adoptive mother is getting old, she’s declining slowly. And other people might look to her with pity and sympathy but all I can look at her with is hate, is that wrong to say?
I wonder what joy you get out of lying to someone for so long. What joy you get out of deception.
I wonder how much hate you must have to lie to someone for so long and smile as if nothing is wrong.
Everyone deceived me, everyone who ever knew me, friends of family, family itself, regular people and now I must pretend like nothing is wrong.
My faith in peoples words are forever shaken. I now question everything about everyone and even myself.
I trust no one. No one at all. How did strangers have more right to my life then I did about myself?
My adoptive mom is sad because I don’t love her, I don’t. I don’t think I could ever love someone who found safety in cruelty.
