iHeartSuJu13

one. My mother is a picture frame. Inside of her she holds every bit of hatred and displays her anger for all to see. Her past pressed coldly behind glass waiting to be broken. I wonder sometimes why I broke the glass. I wonder sometimes why she fixed it. two. I'm no better than she is. Anger begets anger and picture frames beget picture frames. We're the same but different. Different in that I haven't melted down. Same in that we both can't see when we smile and we're both made of something paper thin. I just hope I shatter the glass more gracefully than her and without dealing injury on others. three. I still wake up screamin