I am the bitter taste of gall

Is it wierd how my scars ache when I think of her (unbled blades, tap of streaming tears) Is it odd how I wish to kick, stab, bludgeon her (the dog hung within the gallows, mellow flesh hung low) Is it wierd how I cherish my lacking ability to see her (as a true mother, was she?) Is it wierd how I wished she simply died, (dead, dead, a dog borne to death) Because its not (I know its not, its not, its not) She is nothing (to me, to everyone, she never was) Absolutely nothing, when I truly think of her (the torrent of clotted blood, free) How I wish she'd drown within my mindless plain of unshed tears (searing tears bathed within my bath) I wish I punched her myself (i did, i swear i did...) Pounced with the same ferocity as my feline counterpart (slashes upon the very fearful fleshy wrist) I wish she were dead (by my own hand, claws fail to retract) perhaps one day the blood I mercilessly shed (the bitter taste of gall, black, hopeless) Shall bulge and clot upon my leg (blood baring blood, eyes unseen to the eye) And state her name (the fear of flesh) Transform into her mane (the bane of bone) As it were I who slashed every letter... (blood borne blood) Is it wierd that I find solace in these wounds? (blade and bath) Within the hurt of her (a bath bathed within blood) I think not, because it is not, it never was. (so I shall say goodbye)