a real mother (cloth to smother)

I don't want to see you, because I don't like you as a person
But still you created me, asphyxiated me

I never talk about you. There's nothing much to say.
You weren't the crazy one, the fascist absurd

I wonder sometimes if you wanted a job just because you were bored, or if you wanted out. I agreed with it either way; your freedom meant little to me because you were always doing things I never saw, exefficient secrets about the apocryphal santa claus.

You're not my secret to keep because I don't want you
I don't know you, so how could I hope for you to die?

And it's not to say that I think children should never be shuttled around in a short bus bought by their mother (this which you never did do), but when they get out into the rest of the world where no one else was doing that they're going to have some problems. Me, here? I have some problems.

I'm not perfect. I'm not like that. Did you ever think that's what you would get?

I'm a substitute for a teacher, just like you were. I was supposed to be an engineer and then I wasn't, in the end.

Just like you. Just like you. Trapped in failure, just like you.

Mother's little copied face with Father's brain inserted instead, yet nothing close to savvy enough to be that level of evil genius.

I hope you're happier than I am. I hope you don't even notice. I hope you don't feel the vibration of this, my self-sabotaging betrayal.

I hate you the way I hate myself - that's your proud honor, you know. No one else in the universe. One spawn among the world.

I hope I rot in divers twist. I hope I don't survive the winter.

And I hope you grow old like a hating witch, a finger without a splinter.