Letter #2

I make a pretty shit housewife
So much so that I’m not a wife  
And I don’t have a house    
Fuck I don’t even have a partner  
   
I guess I should retitle the series  
‘Letters From a Trashy Single-Mom’  
Or    
‘Letters From a Fucking Trailer Park Cliche’  
Or  
‘Letters From Just Another Stupid Girl Who Thought She Could Break the Cycle But She Was Just Too Fucking Weak’  
   
Is it better to raise my daughter apart?  
With my sanity at least partially intact?  
Or is better to bite the bullet?  
Sacrifice my happiness to play pretend?  
   
I talked a lot about reconciliation    
In my first letter  
   
Reconciling the past    
With the present  
   
But what about reconciling    
My wants and my needs  
With this marrow deep fear    
That I’m just a fucking failure  
Just another statistic    
   
This gnawing sensation that I’m turning into my mother  
And my kid is gonna suffer the consequences    
   
The fear is a snarling beast  
Sitting in the corner of every room of every place I’ve ever been  
Using my relationships as a fucking chew toy  
Howling over every attempt to express my desires  
Devouring my sense of self  
Until there’s nothing    
Nothing but a bloody, suffocating ache  
Where my personality used to be