I didn't dare to look at my mom's face: this is how I portray myself dying in her gaze.
tw // mentions of suicide , deaths , blood , brief mentions of abusive parent.
But I didn't die, I am not going to die. Instead, she watched me live my second life. I want her to know how much I bleed, how much I would take to let myself drown in her sea of high hopes, how it's just one step away from falling through the darkness she wished I would never think.
But in this painful death she will see me as her in the crack of glasses ripping my skin apart, in my own palm-I don't want to be in her shadow every time I look into my own reflection. I am not a human with anger, at least. I was afraid but I have to be a bigger person so well here I am, eating my sadness whole and spitting the innocence out of me; turning into a monster everyone thinks is a hero. Maybe she thinks I am just half of her love and a good person she raised but I am taped with her wish of death and an empty stomach once hungry of love.
But I am alive today. Maybe, she made me alive. She sacrificed half of the things that loved her and it made her go through pain, but I don't know why she has to share it with me. They were a little kid with fear in a big body and heart, thinking where they did go wrong. I was 4. 1 don't know if they also once thought of death so our mom can love us more.
