My mother is the only person,
Who can tell me that,
"Someone always cares about,
You, dear
," and,
I'll believe her to the end of the world.

So I hate her for the guilt of knowing,
I'm sincerely disappointing someone,
Out there.

(and I thank her for being,
That one person,
Who keeps my head straight and,
Keeps my toes on the right side,
Of the bridge,
Even if it's only out of childish,
Guilt.)

I tumble out of bed and,
She tells me,
"Today will be a wonderful day!" and,
I believe her even though,
I know,
She's a liar.

(She's the only liar that,
Counts.)

.

.

.


.

.

postscript;

(One day, you'll give on me,
I know it.
I guess, in the mean time,
I'll just have to play the words you said,
Over and over until,
I believe it, I believe it!
and make you believe too,
That it's not your fault,
Which should be easy,
Because it's simply not.)

You are the pinnacle of perfect,
and, God knows, I'm so sorry that,
I'm not like you.

I'll try and make it easy for you,
To hate me.
It should be easy enough, already.

.

.

NOTES:

1. - For my mother, even though she'll never see this. I am such a disappointment, and she makes me believe I'm not.