ᴍʏ ᴍᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴛᴏʟᴅ ᴍᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ʜᴀs ɢᴏᴛ ɪᴛ's ᴘʟᴀɴs

19 August 2015 @ 03:31 pm

when i was a little girl, my mother
kissed me on the forehead and told
me i was cursed.

i was born with medusa’s eyes, she
said. my skin was barbed. my kiss
would not wake sleeping princes.
i would love too hard; i would
have blood on my hands.

over burnt cookies and sour yogurt she
taught me not to hate this thing that
lives inside my skin. (if i wanted to
fear it, that was my business.)

how many mothers can tell their
daughters they’re killers the same
way they say i love you?

— let them remember i was a monster that was loved | m.c.

( i can't sleep )