Puppet Master
My mother. She could see me crumbling to my feet and all she would do is grab a bag of popcorn and watch.
Like I was some sort of circus act that she has control over.
The minute I bent down and started to pick myself up, she was the first one to throw a rock.
She knew I was on the path to self-destruction and she didn’t care.
She wanted to watch me cut myself. She wanted to watch the blood pour from my veins like every hope and dream I ever had flush onto the cold tile floor because that meant she was better than me.
It meant she had something over me and could use against me as hidden ammo whenever she wanted. “You need help,” she would yell at me as I cried when somebody touched me.
“Why can’t you just be normal” another slander being thrown at me as if I didn’t feel low enough already.
“You need to get over yourself” as if I was doing this for attention.
As if my life long dream was for everybody to stop and stare at me as I was mentally dying, giving me their unwanted condolences and pity hugs.
My mother had no intention of helping me in my utmost time of need.
Because what's a puppet master, without her puppet?