My mother was dead before I came into the world,
I know not what killed her, only that something did.
Standing in her place was something that tore through words and the mind’s fragile shields,
Brought me down to levels I was sure could not get any lower and then continued to do so.
But I only figured it out, truly figured it out, when she didn’t stop him, when she just watched.
You see, what hurt my mother the most, despite all she screamed and yelled,
Despite her talent for reducing me to a sobbing mess of myself,
A mess that couldn’t be pieced back together again,
He loved me more.
Even when I didn’t want him to, he loved me more.
My mother was not the most beautiful thing in the world, she was only the loudest.
And not even the loudest thing can hold your attention for long.
To him, I was beautiful for my silence.
And to her, I was a knife to the throat.
saw a prompt for 'mother's injury' and this is what happened