Suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling,
that replaces the blood in my veins.
The blood that drips down my arms,
as the blade finishes its journey,
across fair, thin flesh
that hardly holds together,
as it is sliced
in a repeating pattern of line,
after line,
after line.

These were not the patterns
that I learned about,
in my younger years,
patterns of numbers and shapes.

These were patterns
that were etched on my body,
red and glowing,
droplets forming and falling,
and falling,
and falling.

They say the scars tell a story.
Not like the stories my mother read,
by my bedside
as my eyelids grew heavy.

These were stories my mother created.
Stories of threats,
and shouts, and screams,
that fill my ears,
and fill my eyes with tears.
Down my face those tears run,
and run,
and run.

Not the running I would do
as a field event
when I was young,
where teachers said they were proud.
The words that my mother never said.

The words my mother says are cruel.
Words my friends' mothers never say.
Words no one's mother says,
but mine.

My mother is not a good person.
Or a kind person.
Or a loving person.
Or the mother people believe her to be.
No, she is my mother,
and I truly wish she wasn't.