*** Up Of A Son Vs. Bitch Of A mother

I don't remember being born. Does anyone?
But, I remember being little. Hearing my parents fight as my brother and I laid in our beds.
Hearing my brother's soft sobs, rack up into his body.
I never brought it up though.

How the fuck could someone make this happen to their kids.
They sit around, getting fucked up.
Then yell all through the night, keeping them up.
I remember telling my 'MOTHER' I hated her.

The sad thing is,
I really do.
She never did accept me.
Why the fuck would I accept her?

I was taught to earn respect.
Not command everyone around, then get it.
She's a fucking hypocrite.
Eager to feed on hearing her sons cries at night.

The way my brother pushed her off when we were thirteen amazed me.
He had the friends to talk to.
While I was sitting in the back slitting my wrist.
Watching the crimson blood fall onto the floor of the bathroom stalls.

That was my home until I was sixteen.
Drugs were my escape.
The different colored pills, and the white powder.
They drew me in.

Just like that razor in the velvet box.
it lays there sparkling.
Oh so inviting.
God damn, the way it felt against my skin.

She didn't care though.
Just laughed.
I was just a silly teenager.
Looking for attention.

Exactly.
That's all I wanted.
So, I wondered the allies of Paris.
Looking for the perfect boy.

I found him sprawled out.
Drunken.
he was broken like I was.
My fix.

The night my Mother walked in on me and the boy.
Was her last night in my house.
My father never speaks of her.
I'm glad.

I want her to know,
If she's at my funeral.
I'm a fucking faggot.
Get over it, I fucking love drugs, and alcohol, and that little shiny razor.

Love,
Your Fuck Up Of A son!