My mother said to me,
"Some people are too sensitive,
To be in a relationship. I believe
Your father is one of those people."
Even as the words left her mouth,
It was as though a pall had stretched
The air thin, and smothered my face.
My father is a lonely man, his hands
Are always empty.
My mother is a lonely woman, her shadow,
Stretches behind her like a wedding train
Leading the wake of her funeral.
I am left to look at my oldest brother
My oldest sister, two pillars of strength,
Who inherited little from my mother,
Nothing from their father,
And created themselves, like stars
From the cauldron of nebula, homunculi.
I am alone, with lonely claws
With a shadow like a scorpion's tail,
Waiting, to stab myself in the back.
I am the image of my parents,
In everything I do.
If they are destined to be lonely,
Then I might as well die lonely, too.