Bad Seed.

What were you expecting
by reaching out to me?
a disapproving stranger
without any sympathy;

I have nothing left to give you
you’ve stripped my being clean
Put that red hand back in your pocket
when you’re in my vicinity;

Your struggles and your sadness
are not lost on what I perceive
The creature you’ve turned into
was somehow born to me;

Yet, in spite of such genetics
you remain a foreign entity
I may be your mother
but my daughter is deceased;

People blame and name me
pass judgment cruelly
And perhaps, I am a failure
I don’t deny these things;

Whatever I stand up for
in the end of such tragedy
I will not be standing
for what you’ve grown up to be.

My “Misery” Doesn’t Love Anything.

A Gauge of My Levels of Combustion at Present.

Some Insight to My Levels of Near-Combustion at Present.

Misery Loves Company, No?

I sent the Orphan to the beach alone twice, no three times in a row last week…he’s not deserving of my current state of shittiness…so I have spared him out of love and respect.

Why….?”, He wondered the last time I mumbled “Rain-check” to him with my back turned – not wanting to make eye contact at that very moment for my own WHACKED-OUT ANXIETY/PTSD-esque reasons…(he never pushes); he eventually left for the blue without me again, with a locker-room throwback slug in my arm on his way out the front door; he makes me grin…

I sent him a text message about an hour later that read:

“Idk how else to express myself other than to tell you that I’m trying to spare you, Killer…I feel like I’m gonna explode…”

A statement which is very accurate in description; a lifetime spent in the open spaces – arms reaching upwards towards the Gods in the thunderstorm – demanding that the other shoe be dropped on my fucking head already…’cause I have been on edge, waiting with nervous anticipation for it since I can recall anything about my own sense of anxiety,

I am ashamed of my social and emotional shortcomings when it comes to meaningful relationships with the male persuasion;

I am afraid of most males with whom I share any context of a confined physical space with, reflexively – no matter how hard I fight the fear that swallows me;

Men wonder why I am such a “stuck up bitch” or if I am “on mute” or if  I “feel superior somehow” to them, as a result of my misunderstood, standoffish reaction to their fucking pheromones in my environment…

I wonder why I am so broken; and why I’ve been so far: unable to just STOP the anxiousness,fear,paranoia and passive-aggressive rage that has been part of the Survivor Me – The miserable parts of being a Survivor…the mind-fuck, night terror shit you can’t wish on your very worst enemy.

So..does my own Misery Love Company, after all…? I think not.

 

Misery is a Contagious Disease That I Don’t Wish To Spread.