low on self esteem : {open}
May 11, 2016 20:44:46 GMT -5
Post by goat on May 11, 2016 20:44:46 GMT -5
miette reno
If you are standing in the middle of train tracks, and the train is fast approaching, it does not matter whether you walk or run the other way. No matter how fast you go, you will be crushed by the train in mere seconds. It feels like the same thing with my mother. Whether I drum a quiet beat on her door or scream her name until my lungs give out, she will not hear me.
It doesn't stop me from trying, anyway.
I bang my hands flat against her bedroom door. I had been using my fists, but one of my knuckles had split right down the middle. "Mother!" I repeat, for what seems like the thousandth time. My voice wavers like an unsure tightrope walker.
She is ignoring me, of course. She wants to make it perfectly clear that she only cares about herself. I pound harder on the door, until my shouts turn to screams and tears stream down my face. I don't know why I do this to myself. It is always the same. As much as I want to change things, this is one thing that I can't.
I stumble backwards, furiously wiping the tears from my cheeks. A swift kick to the doorframe and an "I HATE YOU" is the last blow I attempt to deliver. With the knowledge that she didn't hear any of my episode, I storm down the hallway, down the stairs, across the foyer and into the outdoors.
The thick air of the night is almost suffocating. A good girl my age shouldn't be out this late, but I have nobody to stop me, so I might as well just do it. My feet take me as far as they can, until I am doubled over, heaving air into my raw throat. I shouldn't have cried so much. My surroundings focus into the backside of a row of buildings. The ground around me is littered with trash. The gleam of empty bottles catches my eye. I lean down and swipe one up, tilting it around in the moonlight to see if anything is left inside. At the very bottom, an unidentified liquid sloshes around. A large part of me of me wants to drink it. It could be alcohol, or poison. I would take either.
I hate my mother. How pathetic. I grit my teeth until my jaw trembles. Anger, no, rage, courses through my blood. My arms and legs shake against my will. I clamp my other hand around the bottle, hoping that if I hold onto it tight enough, I will stop being so irrational and just get over myself.
Instead, I take a violent step backwards to hurl the bottle at the building. It shatters, and all I can do is stare at the glistening shards littering the ground. "This is stupid," I mutter to myself.
"This is STUPID." Turning around on my heels, I bend down to grab the next closest bottle. The fact that this one is completely filled doesn't stop me from chucking it at the wall. A beautiful firework of broken glass and random liquid results, so beautiful that it could be framed. I don't feel the laughter bubbling up in my throat, but I can hear it. I don't want to recognize it as my own. I wish this was not me.
It doesn't stop me from trying, anyway.
I bang my hands flat against her bedroom door. I had been using my fists, but one of my knuckles had split right down the middle. "Mother!" I repeat, for what seems like the thousandth time. My voice wavers like an unsure tightrope walker.
She is ignoring me, of course. She wants to make it perfectly clear that she only cares about herself. I pound harder on the door, until my shouts turn to screams and tears stream down my face. I don't know why I do this to myself. It is always the same. As much as I want to change things, this is one thing that I can't.
I stumble backwards, furiously wiping the tears from my cheeks. A swift kick to the doorframe and an "I HATE YOU" is the last blow I attempt to deliver. With the knowledge that she didn't hear any of my episode, I storm down the hallway, down the stairs, across the foyer and into the outdoors.
The thick air of the night is almost suffocating. A good girl my age shouldn't be out this late, but I have nobody to stop me, so I might as well just do it. My feet take me as far as they can, until I am doubled over, heaving air into my raw throat. I shouldn't have cried so much. My surroundings focus into the backside of a row of buildings. The ground around me is littered with trash. The gleam of empty bottles catches my eye. I lean down and swipe one up, tilting it around in the moonlight to see if anything is left inside. At the very bottom, an unidentified liquid sloshes around. A large part of me of me wants to drink it. It could be alcohol, or poison. I would take either.
I hate my mother. How pathetic. I grit my teeth until my jaw trembles. Anger, no, rage, courses through my blood. My arms and legs shake against my will. I clamp my other hand around the bottle, hoping that if I hold onto it tight enough, I will stop being so irrational and just get over myself.
Instead, I take a violent step backwards to hurl the bottle at the building. It shatters, and all I can do is stare at the glistening shards littering the ground. "This is stupid," I mutter to myself.
"This is STUPID." Turning around on my heels, I bend down to grab the next closest bottle. The fact that this one is completely filled doesn't stop me from chucking it at the wall. A beautiful firework of broken glass and random liquid results, so beautiful that it could be framed. I don't feel the laughter bubbling up in my throat, but I can hear it. I don't want to recognize it as my own. I wish this was not me.
