There comes a moment, every so often, when you wonder why you bother being nice to people, and i don’t mean civil, i’m talking out of your way nice. I have happily done my best to be a friend and a support to them and they do nothing but throw fits and get nasty at every opportunity.
At times i make mistakes, and all i ask is that i’m shown the same understanding as i would show them. Instead i get abuse and am left feeling like shit, sickeningly so.
And still i continue to be nice and run around after everyone like a pet dog desperate for a pat on the head. Isn’t it time i grew a backbone? Showed some ownership and refuse to take others sarcastic bullshit against every action and every word. Why should i feel guilty for talking too much, or being awkward or clumsy or being proud or discussing what’s going on in my life. Why do i have to apologise for existing, feeling like i’m tolerated instead of wanted?
Perhaps i’ve reached the moment where i say ‘fuck you’ where a ‘fuck you’ is due.
Father, where art thou.
There are many ways of taking a life. He took mine, but I continued to live. Vital signs aren’t proof of someone being alive. And what a talented corpse I became.
Until one day I decided to commit a murder of my own.
September had always felt like my month, there was a sense of ownership. It was the month I was born, the month of fresh starts and in 2004 the month I lost a mother. Listening to songs about September that were clearly written for me. The lyrics were the lines I had lived by, I recognised myself in the words like a mirror with a back beat.
I don’t remember the month he left, you would think I would, but I just don’t. All I knew years later was that he had left.
My memories of my father are brief; a slightly familiar shadow that occasionally visited my reflection.
These reflections came with memories of hours spent alone in my room, a mother with a beaten face and her expression, like a confused child. In those days I mirrored my mother’s pain.
Now they’re gone, I reflect nothing.