I hate that I'm imperfect
That I look at my arms and think to myself sometimes
"just slit them"
But don't have the guts
That I sometimes looks at myself in the mirror and can't see anyone there
That I'm told I have my mother's lips and fathers beard
I'm the living culmination, a joining in of lovers in the past
Alive in the present.
I miss my dad and can't see my mom
I know she shaped more of me
And at times I wonder and worry over
The war that's on my face
My father coming up from the grave
Still trying to breathe
My mom alive, yet so distant from me
I do more than see this
I feel it and see it
Their love overt
Obvious
And then I wonder
Was I ever truly worthy of love
When those who made me couldn't make it work forever?
😫ðŸ˜
