cw : there might be mentions of psychotic behavior, blood and child abuse. please skip if uncomfortable with such topics.

My mother said she loves me;
that's why she's drawing galaxies all over my skin,
but why does it hurt, why does it bleed?
does the universe vomit blood, like i do,
with the multitude of galaxies, it contains?

My parents divorced when I was very little, hence why I have very few memories of my dad. Mother described him with curses and profanities, giving him the title of a despicable husband. And I easily believed her, for the few memories I have of my father is him inflicting violence on my mother.

I hate him, I despise him with every active cell in my being. I hate my father, I hate one of the humans who breathed life into me. If I could unwind the past, I would make it so my mother never met him. She deserves happiness. In every universe, with or without me, she deserves to sit on a pedestal and be worshipped like the goddess she is.

On the summer of their divorce, my mother asked me about my likes and dislikes. As a child of curiosity, I simply answered 'the vast universe', the gorgeous art of beauty and fear. And she volunteered to adorn my body with everything I loved, she finally seemed ecstatic after a long while.

I agreed, my heart thumping with the anticipation and the adernaline of seeing my mother happy again. My only wish in my godforsaken life was coming true, so who was I, to refuse?

Not until she came to me with a knife.
not until she forced me down onto the bed,
not until she cut my frail pale skin;
one, two, three, ten cuts,
first my wrists, then my back, now my legs.

I didn't dare refuse, I didn't dare struggle, for my mother was smiling — a sick excuse of a smile but still one. She wasn't crying, that's all it mattered. After all, how bad was it, when it was just a few blood lost?

My body was soon adorned with scars, or paintings, as my mother named them. There was the planets drawn, with the sun in the middle. There was the milky way and the innumerable stars. The moon was present, in all it's glory, the eclipse marked. And in the span of a few weeks, my body was but the house of a plethora of galaxies, of black and red.

I knew that my mother was mentally ill, I recall the memories of her trying to stab my father in his sleep, just because he spent a few hours with his sister. No matter how hard I try to discard the reality, I vividly remember it. And after gaining my custody, if to hurt me was to cope with her adversaries, I accept it, my goddess. Paint my body to the point of oblivion and I would still embrace it with the sweetest arms.

My mother is a divine being, you see, my goddess. For she made me the universe, containing the vast galaxies. I'm her art. Her masterpiece. And I belong solely to her museum.

I'm her everything,
her talents in flesh,
and her insanity.