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Dear Mother,
If I turned out the way I did whose fault is it? Is it mine, the one who had to look around for pieces of myself in random people? Or is it yours, the one who claims to have made every piece of me? If you claim to care about me so much why is it that you always purposefully say the things you know would hurt me the most, knowing they would hurt me? Why is it that you always have to complain about parts of me that you created? If you claim to love me, shouldn't that mean you love every single one of my sides? Why is it that you treat me like a package that was delivered ready to you? Ready to act like my own person without having been taught anything from you. I had to teach myself everything yet you refuse to listen to me, to the person I made on my own. If you refuse to shape me into a person you wouldn't feel burdened to love, then why won't you at least look at the one I was able to create?
