Mom. Mom, Mom, Mom.
You say you love me,
But you hurt me.
Lies, hitting, yelling, screaming, cussing.
They don't seem like a big deal to you.
Because a person can't hurt themselves,
With their own hatred and evil.
Only the ones it's intended to.
But why? That's the question.
So much hatred towards three little children.
Aren't kids supposed to be happy and play?
All day, all day, all. day?
But no, instead we hid our pain.
At least I did. Still do.
Can you see it? Can you tell I hurt?
No! Of course not.
Why would you? You wouldn't.
I don't remember much of what you did to me when I was little,
But I feel it. It's there.
Tearing me apart like a paper shredder.
Completely demolishing me to pieces.
Or am I blocking those memories? Do you really love me?
Did I ruin your life?
Or am I just as pathetic as you describe me to be?
Because, Mom, even though you hurt me, I still love you, hun.
I'm finished talking. Alright. I'm done.

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