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.

person with pink lips
Photo by Livingstone Ochieng on

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