Thick, black rimmed, broken glassed taped in the middle. The culmination of your stereotypes and I bent backwards to fit them because, because if I fit, then in some sense I was normal.
I am my own history simply because, I don’t know any better.
Dirty gutter puddles with broken lungs broken by broken glass, everything broken. I’m just too young to understand.
But I’m everything I wanted to be when I was young, minus everything that got me here. Looking in the mirror not quite there, yet not really here there, I’m only ambition in addition to the world of men that wanted me to mirror his own image.
I imagine what I would be without you. They say you wont amount to much without a father but… what if you have too many?
Too many push-ups, and not enough food perfect form with an obsolete score born of ill will, still waters stand still I am bad laughs of irritated infested blood but I am also love- I love the way hatred sounds and I… sometimes feel I am the reason my fathers cold. I was their warmth.
I am their
I will be their happiness.