Cursed Child

I wonder why I have done anything. I have spent days crying to my mother asking why I had to have been born. Why she would dare birth a child with demons nipping at her soul.

I wonder why I was so mean, so young. Why I had bestowed so many adult issues onto a child, though how could know? I was a child myself.

I wonder why I have broken so many hearts, tossing and turning at every hopeful and aching silence I offer.

I wonder why misery claws poisonously into my flesh, tearing and shredding until my flaws spill endlessly onto the tiles like a gutted fish upon a boat.

I wonder why I continue to be timid and ill-fitted in every interpersonal turn. Why every friendship and relationship of mine billows like ash in my palm at the first sight of strife.

How do I answer these? When I have lost my mind, lost control, lost all I am wondering the same? I was born and early on traumatized by an adult. And it is my curse that continues to get worse as I grow. Only now I can drink, drive and drive everyone away drunkenly, deflatedly.

There is no why. I was born with original sin, and continued collecting every sin I could until I felt absolved of wasting space and time. I was told to stop making excuses, so therefore I am.

A cursed child.