“It’s your fault,” he said
For spraying all of my room,
With a tin filled with chemicals
Till the whole room
Smelled like a mosquito nightmare.

“It’s your fault,” he said
For causing myself to breathe difficultly,
And funnily, that comes from a smoker
Who is the real murderer
To his own child.

Is there any difference anyway?
When cigarette smoke slides down under my door
Multiple times a day,
Taking up the entire space of the room
That almost makes me choked up whenever I hide under my blanket.

So, I told him
If you want to kill me so badly
I would prefer letting me, kill me,
Since you do not care of anything under this roof
You would not probably care if all you ever find later
Is me lying on the cold floor,

So excuse me, this is my “fault”.



2 thoughts on ““it’s my fault”

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