Recipe for Disaster:
         1 cup blame, directed away from yourself
         2 tsp of emotional manipulation
         1/4 cup of freshly squeezed fake apologies
         1/8 tsp of spite
         3 cups of self-hatred, projected onto somebody else
         1/2 cup of anxiety, rooted in insecurity
         A pinch of miscommunication
         1 tbsp of false hope
         A healthy dash of passive aggression to taste
         A splash of whiskey
         -- halve the empathy

Directions:
         1. Combine ingredients and simmer until completely evaporated.
         2. Apologize and start again.
         3. Repeat steps one and two.

My mom, with the green
witch's casual, sour malice,  
can verbally ****.

But she is easily
deceived by disguise
- my body is a mask.

My submission is
but a costume - my calm
the offered lie.

I detest my own
pale, small, adolescent
answers - my weakness.

There ain't nothing wrong
with fighting, son.

It scares the children, sure,
but so, too, would anything
we try to shield them from.

Fighting fortifies the lively
as much as it destroys
the ignorant and apathetic.

Therefore protect your mind
against those poisons, and
purge them from others
when necessary.

Your games and
childlike attitude
always put me
in a bad
mood.
It's like you
were trying your best
to leave a
permanent crease in
between my
brows.
- frown.

Those long talks
till 5 A.M.
Thought we meant
every word we said
Those stupid little fights
Felt so right
Till it got on our nerves
And couldn't stand each other's sight!