#249.
From the start, it was never about us. It was always that. Always your dream. You planned it all out picture perfect, our roles, our script. Now it's not working, and it's our fucking fault.  You don't even fucking care whether or not we feel guilt, because to you we're just puppets. We're just puppets in your grand plan. We don't even fucking have feelings, do we? Anything we do wrong is our own fault, and you can just yell it out. Yell it all off on the senseless puppets until you fucking feel better. Yeah, do it. Throw coal into the fire. Watch us burn why don't you. Then you can fucking blame it all on us again. Because after all, isn't it our fault?

You don't even care that I'm crying. You don't even fucking care that he's packing his bags. You don't even care that he's probably never coming back, and you don't fucking even care that he's trying.
You're not noticing that every time you yell at him, I cry too. You're not noticing that I'm shaking. That I'm trying to put music that makes me smile as high up as it will go. All you're doing is fucking screaming over it and I don't know what to do anymore but cry. This hurts. All of it. I wish you'd just stop. 

So you hate us. You've all but kicked him out, and you're yelling at me while I don't even know what the fuck I've done wrong. Thanks, aren't you just world's number one mum.

Fuck off. That all I want to say to you right now. And when this is all over, I'll call myself a dickhead for ever being such a bitch to my own mother. I can't help it right now. I honestly don't know what else to do, because all has failed me. Why.

Hello, this is Tien. This blog is the remains of the unconventional cliches and angsty phrases of my teenage years. (Plus a new one every now and then)
I ♥ Phoenix, (500) days of summer, double entendres, unmade beds, autumn, Chopin, syncopated melodies, G7 chords and things that make me feel.

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