Dear Mum.

To my mother with the wild hair, wilder eyes and bad genes.

Last night, you were really mad at me because I always have a scowl on my face. Even though that might not be true, I know how much you despise seeing me frowning because of some reason unbeknownst to me.

But mum, sometimes I can’t help it. It’s not easy deliberately picking up a syringe to fill it with something that will act as a slow-poison for my now youthful but forever decaying body and then to plunge it into my stomach or my thighs.

Because though, I’m a big girl who can take a little prick now and then, the needle still stings and hurts every time I use it.

However, that being said, I know that even though my scowl might irritate you, my admission that I hate this pain will make you downright sad because all your life, you have been led to believe that you are responsible for everything that happens, especially, everything out of your control. I know this because you have prepared me, albeit unconsciously, for the same.

And hence, you will never know that the scowl is a dam to a flood that will never subside because we are the cursed women, subject to our burden three times a day; because I am your daughter, scowling, frowning, always confused at the ways of the world; because though you might have had a lot to do with my life, you will never be responsible for the disease that flows in your blood.

So, forgive me mother, for my scowls, because I think, I would love to bear a thousand harsh words from you than to let you know that I don’t ever want to prick myself again just to fight for another dawn. I would love to have you believe that I am always angry than to have you feel guilty for something that though out of your control, you will always blame yourself for. I would love to cry in the kitchen and have you hate me for setting the table late than have you hate yourself for something neither of us could have prevented.


Sour-faced disgrace.