I can hit you just fine.
To hit you is easy; you look like me.
You remind me of myself.
I can’t stand myself.
That’s why I raise my hand and unbuckle my belt.
You always wonder, why you? Why the other two? And not
They look like her.
I won’t lay a finger on her.
But on you, sure, you look like me.
I made you. I own you.
You infuriate me, upset me deeply.
You remind me of my weaknesses.
My insecurities, my failures.
And then I try to beat you up.
Because I don’t want to look at myself.
Your face shoves a harsh light in my face.
I can’t have you around, you disturb the image that I created.
I pity myself and I pity myself,
And instead of you pitying yourself,
You pity me, I beg you to,
As I drag you towards the ground.
Urging you to assist me
In bringing you down.
And you are so full of compassion,
You don’t realise what I’m doing to you.
What I take from you.
When you’re lying on the floor, crying and hurting,
I can sleep well.
You think this is love.
The lack I impose on you, dedicating yourself to self-loathing,
To care for me, instead for yourself.
I attach yourself to my ego, everything else is barred,
I let you feed me and you must starve.
I have no warmth to distribute, not to myself,
I rob others of it, but mostly you, because you have so much to give.
I don’t see you as my child,
But as everything I never wanted to be.
“Head of Ophelia” by Edwin Austin Abbey (1852-1911)