Bhoomi's diary

I see through your sh*t.
Your sentences always start with I, me, or mine.
I wish I could tell how self-absorbed you are.
How you make everyone’s problems about yourself.
How deep down you can’t care about anyone else apart from yourself
You say you’re religious.
But you could never follow the simple value of compassion.
 
You say you’re my mother, and you know me the best.
But do you really? When you couldn’t see my hurt? The way I was weeping on my own 16th birthday, and you were the reason why!!
You caused me so much hurt.
But you wiped your hands clean of the mess you made, saying you did nothing.
Did you sleep well enough while I cried myself to sleep?
You always found excuses for the anger you displayed.
What gave you the right to do that to me?
All just because you brought me into this world?
You make me feel like I’m ungrateful every day when you can’t get me the same things the other parents can.
I’d be grateful if you loved me enough for the material things to not matter.
But your words are just excuses for your incompetence that you say to feel less guilty about everything.
You failed me, my mother; you really did.
Look at this mess that you’ve made me.
 
You know what hurts me more: your denial of everything.
I can’t forgive someone who can’t admit their mistakes and will instead push them onto me.
I’m waiting for the day you finally understand me.
I’m ready to resolve our issues if only you are willing to admit it.
If only you could admit the fact that you made a mistake and see the hurt you’ve caused me.
Until then, you’re losing me every day; bit by bit, I’m drifting away.