You

((TW: abuse, depersonalization, dysphoria ))

A moment of hesitation is found in a usually collected set of eyes.

Fear.

Who feels fear of death when you hate breathing so much,

Hate the air that swirls in your lungs and torments you,

When each look in the mirror only causes further distress,

Anguish.

You.

You fear a concept so out of your grasp,

You want to play god, what for?

Is it worth it?

Who is it for?

You.

You.

You.

You.

Everything seems to revolve around it doesn’t it, around the concept of you even breathing,

Breathing,

Something so hard when you carry a weight right there on your chest,

Agonizing each waking breath,

Making you think about how much you hate your breasts,

Shifting in that sports bra one size too small.

But you won't take it off, that would mean facing the truth.

The truth that your mother will never see you as you are,

The truth that to her you are just a child,

A sniveling, selfish, useless little child.

She knows you best.

She knows your brain, you aren’t broken.

No matter how sure you are that something is wrong, she reassures you,

No.

Demands you.

“You aren’t a man, no matter how much you cry over those lumps on your chest and those hips you sway like a whore waiting to be taken away. You aren’t ill, you’re just like your father.”

A man who is very ill.

But she continues.

“You lie and manipulate! I can never trust you. No matter how many times you come to me with your heart in your hands I won’t acknowledge it, I’ll shoo it away. Because once in your life you snuck out and lied.

You selfish,

Weak,

Dumb child.”

Maybe you are dumb.

Maybe you are weak.

Maybe, just maybe,

You’re not done growing.

She clearly isn’t either.

She’s stuck in her own abusive cycles.

But yet despite all this you keep breathing.

“Yes, I do.”

And why is that?

“You.”