The taste of my mother is Crystal Light.

Late nights spent in a daze, wandering through morning noons. No definitive answers. When are you coming home? When am I going to school?

A metal bed that scraped my knees whenever I came to wake you up. An alarm clock that blared without answer. Crumpled plastic bottles on beige carpet.

The door to your bedroom was locked. The cable was turned off. Am I real? Do I deserve to live?

A narrow hallway. Three doors, one person.

I was scared of the oven. It had burnt you to death. My hands, I knew, would swell with pallid swathes of scarred skin if I touched it.

My meals were microwave dinners, drink mixes in water. How long has it been since I last saw you? Do you want to see me again?

I know I have grown up to be a miserable person. And it's too late for me to change. My life is not worth that much. It never has been. I am just the thrown away child of a thrown away child. I cannot be anyone else anymore.

What do you see when you look at me? Do you love me?

Are you happy I was born?