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Momma, I think I hate the world. It hurts. Does everyone else feel the needles in their legs when they walk, like I do? Or is that because I'm a freak? I know I'm not normal, Momma. But won't you try to love me anyways?
It's sunny today, Momma. In fact, it feels a little better than the rest of the days. They all blur together into one big colorful stream, but I don't mind. All I know is the pain. How can you and Fae smile and laugh when it hurts, Momma? Does it not hurt for you? Or are you laughing at my misery? I never laugh with you.
Momma, I think there's something broken inside of me. I don't want to be a freak.
But even if it hurts, walking is all I have to do. I limp, and it takes a lot of time, but I would rather leave than see you go. It feels less like abandonment. Maybe this could be called exploring, but I think it's masochism. It's a beautiful day, Momma. Shouldn't we be spending it as a family? Then again, what do I know about families? Ours is perfectly normal to me. But it doesn't make my heart hurt any less, Momma. Why am I the one with the dagger on my forehead? Why can't I have pretty feathers, soft and harmless, like you and Fae? Why am I such a disappointment already?
I look like a fawn, with spindly legs and a body too small for the weight of living. I stare forward, lost expression unwavering. I am weak. I am prey. But I go out anyway. I hobble and I whimper sometimes, but you aren't there to wipe the wrinkles of pain from my face. I don't think you would anyways, Momma. I think you want me to suffer for taking your childhood from you in order to start my own. I look about when I can't keep moving, one eye gold, the other carmine. My reflection isn't something I can stand, Momma. I want to be pretty like you and Fae. I don't think I can ever be handsome, Momma, so I'll try to be pretty for you.
Wait! Your name! My little head rises but I can't see you, so why would someone say your name if you're not around? All I see is a hesitant man who looks a lot like me. I wish you were here, Momma. I don't belong in the spotlight. You are the light and I am the shadow. I wish I could run, but I'm already aching from walking. He wants you, Momma, not me. But I'm scared, and my lips tremble, and I can feel the words coming out of me even as I scream at them to stop.
"Momma...not here now." I wish I didn't sound so weak, like I want to cry, but my eyes are crinkled and I think I might. Momma, why do I have to do this? Why did I have to speak? I can't remember the last time I did. All I want is to be silent and unseen. But now I can't. "She somewhere." I choke it like it burns, afraid he will misunderstand, even if death and running away are things I don't understand well enough to know he will mistake my words. Instead I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth and count my breaths.
I'll be pretty for you, Momma. I won't cry.
@[Voodoo]
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