I'm Sitting Here And Swallowing My Own Blood

Anger, Rage, Disgust, Disappointment, Bitterness, Sadness, Helplessness, Torment, Tortured, Hate....

These words should never be used to describes one's parent....never...ever; yet I use them with disregard and fury. Righteous fury I know not; but oh, they hurt me so much. Their barbs of poison, so laden with the toxicity of insinuation that bleeds me dry. They crucify more blindly then the Jews that so send Jesus to Calgary. I hate to be an ingrate, but I can barely keep count of the times they have broken my heart with their words, their self righteous manisfestations. They make me feel so worthless, so dirty, so useless... I love them yet I try so hard to hate them. I constantly on the brink of a blade. Why do they have to pin my wings and de-gut me in the name of "making" me a better person? Waste me, Waste ME, WASTE ME!

I scream inside yet all I hear is the guttural sound of a choking and wet drowning coming from my slit throat, its slits spills the crimson wetness of my will onto this shirt of sheer white that is my life. My parents hold this knife, this private privilege of slitting my throat and draining my wrist. They say its for my own good, deafened by their slef righteousness, deadened by the blindness of their ignorance.
I see myself, this bleeding, gasping, drowning man on my broken and bloodied knees at the foot of my parents and all they can say is that I'm dirtying the proverbial shoes of their life. I'm bleeding and dying inside and all they can do is watch and judge against me. How can I say I love them? I do, but with a shame and no self-worth. The blood, my blood is on your fucking hands.
I was a son, I tried to love, I hoped to be loved. Its all ashen now, I'm all ashes now