I have died a thousand deaths
at the hand of my own mother.
People used to tell me that I had
to feel something, I had to love her.

Fuck what other people say.
What do they know?

If it were only the physical
That left scars, but no.
She would not dare
Touch me with violence.

Verbal and mental
Was her weapon of choice.
Something crippling enough
To strip me of my own voice.

To be angry wasn't enough.
To draw blood was too easy.
Her tactics went much deeper.