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

 

Your sisters?

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.

Edwin_Austin_Abbey_-_Head_of_Ophelia

“Head of Ophelia” by Edwin Austin Abbey (1852-1911)

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