How To Tell Your Mom You Don't Want to Be Alone

"I don't want to be alone, mom."

That's what you should say. It's what you could say. It's what you would say if your mouth formed the syllables. If your tongue felt your mind and its thoughts how it should. If you could not look at her for long enough. If she could just see your body soaking and melting into the mattress like when you butter bread that's just gotten out of the oven; then she would know

She would see your eyes and how the tears that fall from them water a forest of bloodshot twigs against a white backdrop. How the hazel color in them are not inherited from your grandfather, no, the green comes from the growth of your mind when it expands to envelop every worry of your world, of your existence, of everyone's existence. And the brown, well the brown is really actually inherited from her. Your mom. The one who should see you. Not your illness, not your failure-- you.

You want her to see you. But do you? Do you want her to see you like this? So unloved, so vulnerable, so full of self-hatred that even the happy songs make you think of everything you don't have? Like you're on top of an ocean filled with beauty and happiness and yellows and oranges and in this analogy, you are Jesus Christ. It's not yours. It never will be.

You'll never tell your mom you don't want to be alone because you will feel even more alone with her there.