#using poetry to convey the abstract concept of a mother’s love/hate and just how terrifying all of it is.

[ketxup-kid]

I have ants all over my room. They always come in more numbers than the day before.

Sometimes I wake up with the ants crawling up my spine.

Sometimes the ants come to take away the bodies of their compatriots.

I respect them for it, I think. I just wish they would find a different battleground.

I am tired of this slaughter, and so i no longer kill the ants. And so they come in larger, greater numbers than before.

I am afraid of them, in a sense.

Not genuinely, more just a semblance of tired annoyance stemming from my mother.

I have mold growing in a teacup by my bed. I have no desire to wash it. No need to.

My mother is frantic now. So desperately tired. She slams her broom onto the ants. Tells me to do the same.

They are just as tired of dying as I am of killing them.

They work and toil to keep the colony alive.

My mother is like an ant in that sense.

And because she is my mother, I am like her, and so I am an ant.

But my mother has a murderous fury. And I have my father's willfull ignorance. I let rot thrive.

Maybe my mother will tire of my ignorance and she will come to kill the ants in my room. Maybe she will rid me of my teacup. Maybe she will kill every last one of the ants. And becasue she is an ant, and because that makes me an ant,

Maybe she will kill me too.

[ketxup-kid]

Someone else made me what I am.

I want them to hate me for it just as much as I hate them for it.

And we will live in this anger and resentment and they will understand the person they have shaped.

They will recognize that they are not god just because they made something out of my sorrow.

It is an ugly kind of love, for the creation to hate the creator.

It is a beautiful kind of hate, for the creator to love the creation.