i tend to blame my mother for everything that is wrong with me.
the insanity and
insecurity
and addiction to temporarily filling a void meant for
her love.
My heart beats to the rhythm of her footsteps,
counting how many strides
i have left
to wipe away my tears before
she reaches my door.
there is no margin for error in her unspoken expectations.

i used to blame anything but myself for my actions.
i was a compulsive liar for 4 years,
a narcotic addict for 5.
i layered lies like pills
scattered throughout my room,
each finding their way into my mouth
at the wrong time.

i am the only thing that is wrong with myself.
i'm haunted by reflections in the mirror,
echoes of the girl i couldn't save.
i tried to scrub her off my skin,
carve around the edges and
crawl out of this body.
i became too familiar with the salty taste of bleakness,
a bittersweet over dose.
if only the child-locks on
medicine bottles
worked even after the child-like innocence was
lost.

i think
i want to be saved
a little more than
i want to be loved.