It was not her.
//
When she saw me hurting,
she knew it was not her.
//
When she saw me sobbing,
it was not her.
//
When she saw me choking on my breath,
//
when she saw me shaking in shock,
//
when she saw me screaming for an escape,
//
it was not her.
//
I cowered in my skin
and it was not her.
//
And when I was dying,
it was not her,
for once.
//
I stole away from her
her hands
and her broken rage,
//
her sorrow and terror,
her unwavering pain,
//
so that
for once,
she would
not
have to
hurt again.
//
I was so kind,
so for once,
//
it was not her.

i want to live, right?
it's something i question at night...
not actually,
but i do question that thought itself fully.
do i enjoy breathing?
mom left me the past three years with this thought conceiving...
i feel torn,
and to my very core, worn.
i want to keep moving forward?
but without a part of me around, i don't know where i'm going toward...
i hope she's with the stars,
instead of being depressed and sneaking away to local bars.
do i miss it all and would i live it again?
she made me and without her i wouldn't know where to even begin...