My mother knows me too well

A (very) recent exchange between her and I:

"Uh, hey, can I have my batarangs back?"

She considered the question for a moment, looked me in the eyes, and said very calmly, yet still quite firmly, "no."

She could tell, I suppose, how tempted I was. How queer my attitude had turned since my little sister accidentally ruined my evening. It was not her fault, but she has doomed me to a weekend without feelings of love instilled in my head. In my heart, most certainly do I feel them often. Always, even.

But up in my damnable brain I don't.

I keep forgetting I don't have any knives. That black hole of an ex took my best one, never to return it. She "lost" it. I hate her for that. I surrendered most of my blades to my mother after my last breakdown. I still have my cards and my multitool, but damn it all, I wanted my real blades. I miss them, and though it would conjure a veritable shit storm from my fiance and I would add many bruises to new scars from her hands, I still wanted it tonight.

I suppose if I really needed it I could have used what I do have access to. I wanted it though. I wanted it bad. Very bad.



Too beautiful for words...