my mother’s daughter

every time your words pierce my fragile mind, i find myself six years old again. staring at my thighs and wondering why they can’t look like yours
why i can’t be what you want

you have a funny way of pushing me away, then dragging me back into your twisted games, your crooked lies. i never wanted to see that the most lethal danger to my peace has been you

but yet again, i am taken back to when i am nine years old
and you don’t allow me an ice cream cone
not really a big deal, except i watch my friends eat guiltlessly as i sit staring at my thighs wishing i could burn them away

and now i think to myself, it’s always been the same with you.

because now i am thirteen years old and i step on that ruthless black pit every morning like clockwork
the digits burn into my mind, as i cry because another tenth of a pound is going to make me lose you

but i never had you, did i? i was always asking for things you couldn’t give
how selfish of me
unconditional love is too much to ask

and now, six years later and i find myself hunched over in the bathroom, doors locked, eyes watery, red scratches on my thighs
my finger has found a home in my throat and i think about how i could never find a home in you, and never will.

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