When I once got mad over chores,

Swearing that she never did anything.

That if I was soft,

Weak,

Sensitive,

Flawed,

I would be loved.

You swore not.

But all I saw was her sitting on the couch drawing.

With my raw hatred and bitter anger,

I saw favoritism.

“If you talk back again, you’ll go to your dads!”

“If I do, I’ll just kill myself. Fine.”

“Then do it! Go ahead and kill yourself!”

My scowl faltered then.

I could feel my throat closing and my eyes blinking rapidly, suddenly I was staring at the ceiling.

My love for her was the same.

But I am not sure if hers was the same.

Perhaps it had molded to something else:

Something ugly and bitter, a world far away from pleasantry.

My anger that had quickly grew for reasons I did not know, had dissapated to the feeling of estrangement.

I am flawed, yet I have not received any love nor flowers for this trait,

O’ Mother, my Mother.