I DID’NT KILL MYSELF

I could vividly reminisce when I was thirteen. When I do play around with the ignoramus on the street.

The odoriferous smell coming from my mother’s cooking pot always get my attention, but I dare not touch it until it’s all done and get the smaller portion of it. My pant got wet by night because of how engrossed I have been trolling automobile tires down the street with the people of my caliber.

Mum had known the perfect time when I wet my pant. I was insensible she had been eavesdropping when I was soliloquizing, muttering as she had known me for that cliché. She sauntered with an aroused indignation, holding a cane as she made her first invasion.

“Mum please stop! I am sorry! I couldn’t control my congenital weakness. I frantically said, scrambling on the floor to gain balance. Congenital! You say congenital? She walked off, slammed the door as she shook her head regretting the day she conceived me.

Days became months, and months became years, as her hatred for me escalated like a volcanic eruption.

Her love for me mollified just because I wet my pant when I was thirteen.

Situation got worse as I absolved every ill-treat coming from my mother. Everyday walking by the road side as people take a glimpse of me with disdain, I felt ashamed. I felt as though I was alone with nobody to offer a piece of love. I wish I was never conceived! I shrilled. Now our wishes correlate but mine was much more.

Car swooshing back and forth as I didn’t care where my feet directed me. All I needed was love. Unconscious of a car making a fatal U-turn to where I stood.

My eyes got shut and death called.

 

“I am utterly bereft and devoid of accurate consonants and vowels to portray the way I feel”

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