My mother, she scares me. Oh, God, my shirt is not in the right
place, she's going to come here and rip it apart because of it, I have
to clean my room. Clean my room, clean my room, clean my room.
My keyboard makes a sound, I'm afraid she'll hear that I'm writing
again. I'm a bitch and a failure in life, she says, because I wash
the dishes too slow. And why is it that I'm not as happy when she
makes me do things in the kitchen as when I'm with my friends? And
why is it that I'm always sick? And why is it that I have such a
goddamn attitude, she says. I don't know Mom, why do you? I don't
know mom; maybe I'm sick of life. I don't know Mom; maybe my
friends treat me better than you do. But then again, when I whisper
to them "my mom scares me" they ignore me every time. At least they
don't scare me, Mom, at least they don't. Oh, God, she glanced at
me, what if she sees me holding my tears back? Oh, God, help me,
she'll start saying the same things to me again. I cross my legs,
and suddenly I become a physically retarded person that can't sit
or stand right in front of her eyes. Her eyes, scare me, too. And
no, Mom, I don't want to be strong anymore. No, Mom, I don't want
to be fast and smart like you anymore. I want to wash my dishes
slow, I want to walk slowly, I want to be a failure who can enjoy
life rather than to see myself as you. And then you wonder: why am
I always away from you? And then you wonder: why don't I share my
pain with you? And then you say out loud "What am I supposed to do
if you can't even clean your room?" And then you punish me, and I
deserve it. And then you wonder: why is my towel always wet and not
in the right place?

From tears, Mom, from tears.

Tatiana, 14