thanks mum
There once was a mother so "grand,"
who failed to see harm in her hand-
my cries turned to scars,
while she played all the paths,
of a queen with no soul, just demand.
She missed every sign, feigned disgust,
While I drowned in betrayal and dust.
Now BPD's my name,
and PTSD's the same,
and "normal"? That's just non-
negotiable, I must!
She said, "I was there every day!"
Conveniently blind in her way.
My truth? Just a myth-
Unless served with her pith.
So here I rebuild-well, hurray!
A limerick, absurd, just like she-
A joke wrapped in trauma and plea.
But I laugh (biting, sharp),
While I heal in the dark:
"Thanks, mum. Guest identity's free?"
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