I was born into this world by a scared and tired mother, who'd been through every one of life worst pains.
Broken by every hitting and slashed up by every knife I could ever imagine.

A father who was naive and young, and didn't know much other than the fact that anyone and everyone different were to be hated.
A boy who was scared of complicated words and complicated people,
and only liked life behind the cover of dark glasses, until the day his voice was filled with so many voices I had to leave him for my mother who was blinded with pain.

I was suppose to be born into this world with a mother whose words were poetry, who would give me life lessons, who would sing to me in a harsh voice and give me tea on hard mornings.

I was supposed to be born into this world with a father who loved everyone, whose ex-lover was a man who had fought in a world war for his own country, betraying my father, for my father was of the enemy's blood. My father was supposed to be quiet. Only words he ever spoke, was reading out old literature to me on days were the moon was out.


Why did I have to be born with a mother who has had enough, and a father who doesn't know how to love me?

If I could have had the parents I was suppose to, I would be a woman of great knowledge,
who's beauty was strong in every word she spoke, who would've loved herself through every storm.

Yet here I am, knowing nothing except the things I've figured out for myself, or from my friends' mothers, even though my mother would have had stronger lessons to teach than any of theirs.

Here I am, shaking in every word I preach. Dumb sentences that comes out all the time, because I was taught that silence is unpleasant, and I should break it, with words of things I know, (which isn't much, and shall be repeated.)

Here I am, as weak as a young girl can possibly be at this time of night, hating myself as much as I must believe my mother hates herself.
Oscar Wilde once said that all men will be different from their fathers, and all women shall be like their mothers for that is our curse.
I repeat to myself not to be like her, to be a better woman, to be a better mother when I grow older, but how can I?

When she showed me to hate myself, and my dad showed me to hate everyone who isn't like him?

Yet here I am, loving everyone.
Rebelling everything my father told me, for he did not look out for me the slightest.
I still can't rebel against my mother, loving everyone but myself, looking at myself only as the monster in me, and not the other parts.
The parts that somehow still believe that there is a reason I am alive, and that there is a reason these people made me.

There is love, there is hope, there is faith and all these parts are behind this monster- this dragon.

This dragon that I though for so long could only be slayed by pretty boys with nice eyes. But I realize now that I am not a damsel in distress, and that i shall slay it myself. Slay all the self-hatred, all the ugliness and all evil.

A dragon I would not have had, had I have had the poetic mother and the quiet father.

I realize that no matter how much my parents had taught me,
no matter how great my parents had been,
no matter how many lessons and how many old books,
I still wouldn't have been a woman of great knowledge.

I wouldn't have had that knowledge, had I'd not been fighting for all these years, and many years more to come, because of my broken mother and my unloving father.

I think the only way to get to know as much as possible is to slay the dragon, every day, slay it until it bleeds and screams out in pain.
And to remember that the pretty boys won't hurt the dragon and make it disappear as much as you can.
And to remember that you can't always trust the pretty boys to not speak dragons tongue.
And live everyday
fighting it
until
the battle is won.

Which I believe
(deep down)
will happen one day.