If i had a mother, I think I would have been okay. I think that instead of cutting pieces of my flesh, I would have told her that it hurts and that i think it always will, I would have told her about the times I laid in bed wondering if a pretty face would make it better, I would have told her that I don't know how to forgive myself for not being the person I wanted to be, I would have told her I was still a child, I would have told her how being a writer isn't as great as people make it out to be, there is nothing great or happy about being in so much pain that you don't know how else to cope with it instead of writing about it, writing about it in a way that makes shakespeare look almost un-tragic. I think I would have told her about this boy I met when I was fourteen, about the way we had an on and off relationship until I turned sixteen, until he finally couldn't digest me anymore, until he finally had to puke me out, until he finally left me, until he finally realised someone else has to be the one to choke for me, someone, anyone, but him, because he couldn't do it, he couldn't do it, mom, it scares him, the way I make him feel raw, almost vulnerable, too vulnerable to be a human. he said if love doesn't feel like the way I make him feel, he does not want it, it's been 6 months now, I can't help but think, was it love he gave up on, or was it me. If I had a mom, I think, I would have told her, told her how he ate my heart raw and then left it to be feast upon by flies, the houseflies in my neighborhood that sometimes roam around the city graveyard