my mother loved me, she still does. but she loves me the way her mother loved her, bitter and angry and screaming. i love her back the same way, crying for conflict and biting and clawing through ink in my shoes.

my father loves me, i don't know if i love him. how can you love a stranger who decides the times? how can you love someone who never bothered being around because children are difficult?

i'm not really special. sure, i latch and hyperfixate, but that's isn't really all that new. i'm excitable and loud and annoying when you get to know me. i can't stand people who don't make out what i'm saying even when i'm slurring the words.

i love my sisters, but god if i don't hate them the same. i'd kill them myself but i'll cut my own arm off before anyone else does― (does that apply to my mother, i don't know, because sometimes she gets angry and them i'm aware-in-control and i don't want to be).

my father takes us for the weekend, but it's usually not set in stone.

(i tried to write a biography but the words mix up, where would i even start? the vague memory of screaming from behind the door? the babysitter saying whoever fell asleep first got a cough drop and me faking it because i never really was tired―)

my parents love me, but they love me in the way they learnt to.

(my bubby scares me, i think.)