The Thing that Hates Me is You.

You said I stared at you while I suckled your breast.
I imagine the little bundle just detected an existential threat.
Since you’ve ever looked at me with dread,
like I’m the source of all your woes.
You said you wished I was a boy instead,
and compared me to my male cousins as something less.
So I am less, I am full of woes & I don’t exist.
The voice that inside me telling me I can never be
a real person because I was unwanted by you
who said so, then after I became useful repaying a debt.
I don’t know. Why I’m here if my mother does not want me here.
Why I always try too hard, or not enough. Where is the battle?
The shaky ground keeps disappearing underneath.
Where do I grapple. the kindness I don’t trust?
It’s exhausting, mother, the pursuit of your love & approval.
Nothing else can fill it up & it’s past the time
for a band-aid and a kiss-up. I don’t need it any more.
I can’t feel it any more. No, not really. It’s been gone
too early for too long. If I can’t have a mother’s love
where does the suffering begin & where does it end?

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