The Art of a Life
III.
My mother once said to me, “What is wrong with you? You’re acting like a psychopath.” My mother, who I miss when she’s not near, who laughs so rarely that I can't remember the sound. When she does laugh, it is so unfamiliar that it shocks me, forcing me to shut my eyes and clench my teeth until she stops, which isn’t usually until after everyone else has stopped.
My mother, who always thought I was flirting with demons I couldn't handle. I'm sorry mom, you were right, but my life was like poetry and I couldn't give it up. Everything was beautiful, mostly because I overlooked the bad and replaced it. If I felt sad, I'd fix it. If I felt pain, I'd fix it. If I felt lonely, I'd find a way to fix that, too.
My mother, who always thought I was flirting with demons I couldn't handle. I'm sorry mom, you were right, but my life was like poetry and I couldn't give it up. Everything was beautiful, mostly because I overlooked the bad and replaced it. If I felt sad, I'd fix it. If I felt pain, I'd fix it. If I felt lonely, I'd find a way to fix that, too.
♠ ♠ ♠
Vague, obviously needs to be added to. I wanted to delete this and the last one from the piece all together, but my workshop told me that my relationship with my mother was essential to explaining how my other relationships failed.