I want to see how your mind works and weaves.
You cry out for my happiness
but it's worth nothing more to you than
stained carpet.

My skin crawls when your presence wraps around me.
It suffocates my skin like
thick black tar dripping down my body. Burning hot,
but making me numb.

We're not supposed to be like this; stuck in such a mess.
But then again, when have we ever been
any different? Happy memories are so foggy I have to
squint to see them.

Soon can not be soon enough for leaving, but somehow
I feel bad about leaving you behind.
My heart, a boiling cauldron of bitterness, still breaks
seeing you cry.

Maybe the stork dropped me down the wrong chimmney.
Perhaps I wasn't supposed to call
you Mom. Then again, I don't call you that anymore
anyway.