I wonder if my mom would regret treating me the way she does,
if she woke up and I no longer had a pulse.
and she read the letter, containing all the things I've never said to her.
that every time she made a fat joke, or seriously called me fat, it actually hurt. That laugh wasn't real every time.
That every time she told me I was worthless, that I'd end up like my father, I put a the end of a needle that turned orange with heat against my skin and let it burn in until it was completely cold.
that every time she told me she didn't want me, but was stuck with me because no one else wanted me, I dug into my skin with the nearest blade.
She's seen those scars, but has chosen not to care. She's seen those fresh cuts and burns, but has chosen not to care.
maybe once she reads that note and sees me dead, she might care.
