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I wish I could just loathe her, despise her, ignore her
I can't seem to get away from her,
I am a part of her and the other part of me she resents.
If it were up to her, I'd be wholly hers; her creation to carve, mold and dispose.
She is there in my reflection in the broken glass, in the troubled stream
I can't breathe around her(e)
Maybe this tightness in my chest isn't all her doing
but she won't tell me where to find the screws
Yet she says: "I'm your mother and I know best"
like teeth and toothaches.
For a moment I thought the brush could be found
in the therapist room, the one room
where you can lie down, scratch your belly
while saying "I hate my mother. Does it me make evil?"
Nothing there but dirty paste and hogwash,
hourly sold, leaving you with one lingering thought in the mind "At least I'm not suicidal..."
And outside, It's better to hate God than your mother
Otherwise, you've better have tales that would make God vomit and reconsider
his creation, these free beings wailing on TV shows, claiming (televisual)national sympathy, and my mother.