Blot

You were supposed to be
not. You were a thing to put out
her cigarette butts. A girl is an image of her
mother. Why does the world need another?

You were a reminder of everything she never
got. You were her scapegoat. You were
stupid, something to grate on her nerves.
Someone who demanded time and

attention. You were a
blot on her womanly figure. Why did
you cry? She couldn’t take anything more than
a whisper. When she cut you, you were supposed to
bear the sting. Look pretty, sit quiet – is  a girl’s thing