You could say he hates her,
From the way she talks to him, how every rose is ****** at him thorns first - millions of little slashes - battle wounds of the everyman adding up day to day week to week year to year the river of blood leaks to the ocean big enough to drown them both.
He fires back though, and across the battlements of the dinner table sits the enemy shaking a half empty bottle of depression pills, basing how much happiness was left for the month off of the rattling of white capsules against the orange bottle.. She, how could she have ever given birth to him? Some might argue that was all she ever did for him, too preoccupied with her reflection to see the mirror image her son had become with his suken eyes, a rotton apple, a cyanide cynic at the ripe fresh age of fifteen.
So six months later when they both led the cavalry in charge for the umpteenth time throwing dagger words laced with poison aimed high at heads ducked below cover to a safe place (but of course there is no safe place),
Who would've thought when he told her to start taking her pills she'd take them all. Tip top of the bottle bottoms up for the bottle plain white capsules and blood red wine because when she goes out she goes out like a lady.
Its a sad sight seeing all her family weep at her grave, cry true tears clear and pure. All her family but one, her beloved boy. How dry face and stone visage were oh so heart wrenching.
But perhaps worst of all, is that you could say he hates her even now
Originally supposed to be a spoken word, kind of wish I could've presented this somehow - Him
