please.

I've been off to Uni for a year now.

My body got sick.

Really, really sick.

I was dying.

The moment I was out of my parents' house,

when my body started getting attuned to feeling safe,

no longer being scared,

filled with anger.

I collapsed.

It's summer break now,

I've been reintroduced to my mother's "holier-than-thou".

To my parents' constant fights,

my nights are relentlessly filled with frights.

My dreams consist of it too,

nothing has been able to stop this mindscrew.

There's always been this feeling in the pit of my stomach,

home was always a house,

but it was never a house that welcomed me.

It's almost indescribable,

either that or in everything I truly am incapable.

The stove broke the other day.

It's made of glass and it shattered because there was hot coal on it.

It could've cut me. Burned me.

It really should've.

With how religious my mother is,

it seems everything gets granted when you pray and repent hard enough.

I've been showing penitence for having the audacity to be born,

every day I continue to mourn for the life my parents never lived.

So why.

Why didn't that glass pierce me.

Why didn't it at least stab me in the foot.

Why didn't I get burned.

please.

I am thinking of myself worse than an unwanted mutt.

It seems to be the best description of me.

I always tell myself I can be hurt for them.

I should be hurt for them.

They should hurt me.

Take out their anger on me.

Because like a dog I love them.

And like a dog I still follow them around.

My tail may no longer be wagging, hell it might even have been docked,

but i still love them.

It might be getting harder not to snap and nip them.

But I am a dog.

And as their dog I am okay with being betrayed.

I have nightmares of them fighting.

Of me finally getting disowned.

The day I get discarded like the unwanted mutt I am.

When I can finally beg them,

and put a knife in their hands.

They wouldn't need to pay for a funeral then, right?

Because I can't kill myself.

Not in reality nor dreamscape.

I can only beg someone to rest a knife on my neck a little too hard.

That's the only thing I can do.

Beg.

But my father told me just now about his dreams.

He said I was always his baby girl in them.

Always.

How his dreams consist of me.

His dreams are me.

All those little snippets of time where he wasn't working,

he spent with me.

He dreams of actually having time to raise me.

To live with me.

me.

ʰᵒʷ ᵈᵒ ᶦ ᵗᵉˡˡ ʰᶦᵐ ʰᶦˢ ᵇᵃᵇʸ ᵍᶦʳˡ ʷᵃⁿᵗˢ ᵗᵒ ᵈᶦᵉˀ

ᵗʰᵃᵗ ˢʰᵉ ᶦˢ ˡᵒⁿᵍ ᵍᵒⁿᵉ.

ⁿᵒᵗ ᵉᵛᵉⁿ ᵃ ʰᵘˢᵏ ʳᵉᵐᵃᶦⁿˢ ᶦⁿ ʰᵉʳ ᵖˡᵃᶜᵉ.

ʰᵒʷ ˢʰᵉ ᶦˢ ˢᵒ ˡᵒˢᵗ.

ˢʰᵉ ˡᵒᵛᵉˢ ʰᶦᵐ ᵃⁿᵈ ˢʰᵉ ᵈᵒᵉˢⁿ'ᵗ ᵏⁿᵒʷ ʷʰᵃᵗ ˢʰᵉ'ᵈ ᵈᵒ ʷᶦᵗʰᵒᵘᵗ ʰᶦᵐ.

ᵇᵘᵗ ˢʰᵉ ʷᶦˢʰᵉˢ ᵗʰᵉʸ ⁿᵉᵛᵉʳ ᵐᵉᵗ.

ᵐᵃʸᵇᵉ ᶦᶠ ᴵ ʷᵃˢⁿ'ᵗ ᵐᵉ.

ᴹᵃʸᵇᵉ ʰᶦˢ ᵇᵃᵇʸ ᵍᶦʳˡ ʷᵒᵘˡᵈ ˢᵗᶦˡˡ ᵇᵉ ʰᵃᵖᵖʸ.

ᴵ ᵐᵘʳᵈᵉʳᵉᵈ ʰᵉʳ.

ᶠᵒʳ ᵃ ˡᶦᶠᵉ ᵗʰᵃᵗ ᵒⁿˡʸ ᵇᵉᵍˢ ᶠᵒʳ ᵈᵉᵃᵗʰ.

ᵗʰᵃᵗ ʰᶦˢ ᵇᵃᵇʸ ᵍᶦʳˡ ᵈʳᵉᵃᵐˢ ᵒᶠ ᵃ ᵖᵃᶦⁿᶠᵘˡ ᵈᵉᵃᵗʰ.

ˢᵒ ʰᵉ ᶜᵃⁿ ʰᵃᵛᵉ ᵃ ᵖᵉᵃᶜᵉᶠᵘˡ ˡᶦᶠᵉ.

ʰᵒʷ ᵈᵒ ᶦ ᵗᵉˡˡ ʰᶦᵐ ˢᵘᶜʰ ᵃ ᵗʰᶦⁿᵍ.

ᵖˡᵉᵃˢᵉ.

ʷʰʸ ʰᶦᵐ.

ʷʰʸ ᵐᵉ.

ʷʰʸ ᵈᵒᵉˢ ʰᵉ ʰᵃᵛᵉ ᵗᵒ ᵈʳᵉᵃᵐ ˢᵘᶜʰ ˢʷᵉᵉᵗ ᵗʰᶦⁿᵍˢ.

ʷʰʸ ᶜᵃⁿ'ᵗ ᴵ ˢᵗᵒᵖ ᵇᵉᶦⁿᵍ ˢᵃᵈ.

ʰᵉ ⁿᵉᵉᵈˢ ʰᶦˢ ᵇᵃᵇʸ ᵍᶦʳˡ ᵇᵃᶜᵏ.

ᵗʰᵉʳᵉ'ˢ ᵐᵒʳᵉ ʷʳᶦⁿᵏˡᵉˢ ᵒⁿ ᵇᵒᵗʰ ᵒᵘʳ ᶠᵃᶜᵉˢ.

ᴵ'ᵛᵉ ᵍʳᵒʷⁿ ᵗᵃˡˡᵉʳ ᵗʰᵃⁿ ʰᶦᵐ.

ʰᵉ'ˢ ᵍʳᵒʷⁿ ˢʰᵒʳᵗᵉʳ.

ʰᵉ'ˢ ˢˡᵒʷˡʸ ˢᵒᵘⁿᵈᶦⁿᵍ ˡᶦᵏᵉ ᵐʸ ᵍʳᵃⁿᵈᶠᵃᵗʰᵉʳ.

ᵇᵘᵗ ᵗʰᵃᵗ ᶜᵃⁿ'ᵗ ᵇᵉ.

ʰᵉ ᶦˢⁿ'ᵗ ᵒˡᵈ.

ʰᵉ ᶜᵃⁿ'ᵗ ᵇᵉ.

ˢᵘʳᵉ ʰᵉ ʰᵃˢ ᵐᵒʳᵉ ʷʰᶦᵗᵉ ʰᵃᶦʳ.

ˢᵘʳᵉ ʰᵉ ʷᵃˡᵏˢ ʷᶦᵗʰ ᵃ ᵇᶦᵗ ᵒᶠ ᵃ ˡᶦᵐᵖ.

ᵇᵘᵗ ʰᵉ ᶦˢⁿ'ᵗ ᵒˡᵈ.

ʰᵉ ᶦˢ ʲᵘˢᵗ ʰᶦᵐ.

ᵐᵃʸᵇᵉ ᶦᶠ ᶦ ᶜᵃⁿ ᵖʳᵃʸ ʰᵃʳᵈ ᵉⁿᵒᵘᵍʰ ᵐʸ ˡᶦᶠᵉˢᵖᵃⁿ ᶜᵃⁿ ᵍᵒ ᵗᵒ ʰᶦᵐ.

ʰᵉ ʰᵃˢ ᵃ ⁿᶦᶜᵉʳ ˢᵒᵘˡ ᵗʰᵃⁿ ᵐᵉ.

ʰᵉ'ˢ ᵍᵒᵗ ʰᶦˢ ᶦˢˢᵘᵉˢ ᵇᵘᵗ ʰᵉ ᶦˢ ᵏᶦⁿᵈ.

ˢᵒ ᵖˡᵉᵃˢᵉ.

ᵖˡᵉᵃˢᵉ

ᵖˡᵉᵃˢᵉ

ᵖˡᵉᵃˢᵉ

ᵖˡᵉᵃˢᵉ

ᶦ ʷᶦˡˡ ˡᵒᵛᵉ ʰᶦᵐ ᵗᶦˡˡ ᵗʰᵉ ᵈᵃʸ ᶦ ᵈᶦᵉ .

ᵇᵘᵗ ᶦ ⁿᵉᵉᵈ ᵗᵒ ᵈᶦᵉ.

ᶦ ᶜᵃⁿ'ᵗ ᵏᵉᵉᵖ ᵖʳᵉᵗᵉⁿᵈᶦⁿᵍ ᵗᵒ ˡᵒᵛᵉ ᵗʰᶦˢ ˡᶦᶠᵉ.

ᵗᵒ ᵗᵃˡᵏ ᵗᵒ ᵖᵉᵒᵖˡᵉ ᵗʰᵃᵗ ᵈᵒⁿ'ᵗ ʳᵉᵃˡˡʸ ᶜᵃʳᵉ ᵒʳ ᵏⁿᵒʷ ᵃᵇᵒᵘᵗ ᵐᵉ.

ʰᵉˡˡ ʰᵉ ᵈᵒᵉˢⁿ'ᵗ ᵏⁿᵒʷ ᵐᵉ.

ʰᵉ ᵏⁿᵒʷˢ ʰᶦˢ ᵇᵃᵇʸ ᵍᶦʳˡ ᵇᵘᵗ ˢʰᵉ ᶦˢ ⁿᵒᵗ ᵐᵉ.

ᶦ ᵈᵒⁿᵗ ⁿᵉᵉᵈ ʰᶦᵐ ᵗᵒ ᵏⁿᵒʷ ᶦ ᵃᵐ ⁿᵒ ˡᵒⁿᵍᵉʳ ʰᶦˢ ᵇᵃᵇʸ ᵍᶦʳˡ.

ʸᵒᵘ ᵃʳᵉ ˢᵘᵖᵖᵒˢᵉᵈ ᵗᵒ ʳᵉᵐᵉᵐᵇᵉʳ ᵗʰᵉ ʰᵃᵖᵖʸ ᵗᶦᵐᵉˢ ʳᶦᵍʰᵗˀ

ᵗʰᵒˢᵉ ᵃʳᵉ ʰᶦˢ ʰᵃᵖᵖʸ ᵗᶦᵐᵉˢ.

ᴵ'ᵐ ᵍᵒᶦⁿᵍ ᵗᵒ ᵗᵃᶦⁿᵗ ᵗʰᵒˢᵉ ᵐᵉᵐᵒʳᶦᵉˢ ᵒⁿᵉ ᵈᵃʸ ᵒʳ ᵃⁿᵒᵗʰᵉʳ.

ᴵ ᶜᵃⁿ'ᵗ ᶜᵃʳʳʸ ᵗʰᵉ ᵍᵘᶦˡᵗ ᶠᵒʳ ᵗʰᵉ ᵈᵃʸ ᶦ ᵈᵒ.

ˢᵒ ᵖˡᵉᵃˢᵉ.

ˢᵒᵐᵉᵒⁿᵉ ˢᵗᵒᵖ ᵐᵉ.

ᵖˡᵉᵃˢᵉ.

please.