I had these thoughts stored away stuck in my drafts, rewriting, deleting, attempting to change my words for whatever reason. And then I sat here, asking myself the same questions:
What the fuck for? Who am I looking out for? Who the fuck is gonna say something to me?
No reason. No one. Nobody.
I go back to the first post when I said that at the end of the day, this was for me. That hasn’t changed. I haven’t changed.
With that being said:
I’m so fucking angry. It’s been a year now, and it’s as raw as it was then. I still can’t bring myself to go into that room and paint away the images that are burned in my brain from that day and every day after. I wanna stop feeling this loathing of emotions that fuckin drowned me and keep choking me. I wanna get in my car and blind my older sister with my high beams as I step on the gas and watch her face explode against my wind shield as I run her ass over. I want to grab the dullest knife and disembowel my cunt of a mother and look in her dying eyes while I twist the knife. I want this fist to crack a selfish bitches esophagus and listen to her choke and gurgle on her own blood.
I want to yell at my father for not fucking taking care of himself and leaving me and my sister behind.
I don’t want any fucking pity. I’m past the point of wanting people to understand. Everyday I put the face on for the sake of my kids, my husband, my family. I don’t expose them to this poison that has stayed with me, all the while, its a time bomb of self destruction and I know it.
I know it. And I embrace it. It’s the one thing that is completely mine. It was the product of what other people embedded in me and makes me see people and their actions clearer than I did when I called them sister, mother and friend.
Here, I’m letting it out. But I feel like I’m never going to let it go.
And for now, I’m good with that.