you see, my mother does this face.
her lips contort into the line of disappointment, a pout, if you will.
not many things in this world make me angry, but goddamn, that face sends into a raging frenzy.
[she does it when she knows she is right:
that my future is dithering away, out of sight.
that all the bills she pays are for nothing
if i don't do the job she loves, that i'll be suffering
money is what she didn't have growing up
as if materialism is some genetic trophy cup
that i will never please her with my lack of knowledge
accompanied by anger that turns my mind to porridge perhaps
a sludgy mind that cannot work when i know she thinks i am utter shit, join the fucking club, ma
i can get worse too and no one will need to know
dont remind me, i already know im a shitshow]
the image in my head is so vibrant, you see.
first her eyes somehow slope downwards almost visibly. as if she is physically weighed down by my lack of will to do anything, and her nose, oh dear god her nose, it almost squinches up, you see. giving way for her leering lips to form a solid frown, a pouting frown, the fucked up look of "why did i have you, you are not worth my birth canal" as if i could say "sorry ma, when i was but a mere blastocyst, how was i to predict my future shortcomings, i was a neural disc incapable of thought or predicting my failures" how was i to know, you know?
"but what if you did know?"
if i did know, my dearest mother, i would benjamin button myself into the only pleasurable part of life that begins with conception, i would never let my body see the light of day, i would remain as the oocyte that is shed each month, i would never exist. i would not even allow a corporeal form of my essence to humour your thoughts. your happiness is directly proportional to my lack of being.
if it meant i never were to witness that face again, if it meant being torn apart by black holes from each corner of the universe, i pray, it is what i would do.
your happiness is directly proportional to my lack of being. - ad infinitum