My mother hates me

(The five senses of hate)

I know what hate tastes like

It’s a dry and bitter flavor of darkness that could never seem to depart from the tight corners of my teeth, or the surface of my tongue no matter how hard I’d force myself to spit it out. The acidic flavor continuously crept back in my mouth like a thief would creep through an innocent’s home.

I know what hate looks like

The ill appearance of a woman whose face grows pierced with anger. She’d punish me with cruel consequences even when I committed no crime. A woman who only recognized me as a mistake when I secretly thought of her as a gem.

My mother hates me

I’d replay that one phrase in the illiterate brain that I was forced to claim.

My mother never knew this, but I was always parched with an endless thirst for the love and affection of a mother who, instead of treating me like a daughter treated me as if I were biodegradable litter, even though I knew that the small percentage of love she had for me lied somewhere in the cold brick of ice that she claimed as a heart.

I know what hate sounds like.

The alerting sounds of alarms that go off at 5:00 in the morning reminding me that it was time to play the role of a suffering slave whose efforts to love her mother were null and void. The life scarring sound of profanity that jumped off my mother tongue, and onto the mask that I often wore as a face.

my mother hates me, and I’ve notice this by the freshly sharped daggers that lye in her eyes that would always seem like they were meant for me.

I know what hate smells like.

The sensational aroma of a handcrafted masterpiece that I left me standing over a burning stove top, with only the little knowledge that my illiterate brain contained. The smells would scatter around the room and find its way to my nose.my mouth would water. I had always been bothered to know that the food I made was being devoured by one who has no love for me as I would sit in a corner, and force feed my self cold gruel and lumpy oats.

My mother hates me and by now I know the process. I know that when we have visitors over, that I’m supposed to paint a smile over my permanent frown.

I know what hate feels like.

The hot wet feeling of an aged stranger rubbing his body against mine, holding my head back, and tearing off my hand sewn clothes, while my mother would stand in the door way scanning through the few bucks she received from giving away her daughters virginity for a pair of shoes that she desired for herself. For once I wished to have that one nosey neighbor that would knock on the door. For once I wish to have been saved by the ringing of the phone, but I wasn’t. I cried but the many tears that I shed meant nothing because the god that I gave myself to, decided not to show up that day. I guess he was busy.

My mother hates me….oh yea she hates me.my only solution was god but not even he thought I was important enough to rescue me.