A Perfectly Good Screwup

“You’re a screwup”

My mother yells at me as I’m backed into my corner

“You were a mistake, a fate I’m unable to escape”

I’ll sit in my corner

Looking down at my chewed up nails

And my imperfect messed up screwed up hands.

I’ll sit in my corner

Silent

Alone

Destroyed

As I let my mother scratch her claws

And snap her jaws

Like a wild animal attacking its prey.

I’m nothing more then a fucked up little girl

To my perfect, strong, hard-working mother.

I’m a screwup because my floor looks like a world war,

And my war leaves socks and muddy footprints in her perfectly trimmed house.

I’m a screwup because like my room

My head is a disaster

Inadequately organized

explosions of stress wrecking the perfect harmony of my family.

I’m a screwup to my mom

Because instead of touching land mines of broken promises

I took a pencil and a paper and wrote “no”.

But writing is a disaster,

An invaluable art of destruction

Bringing nothing but chaos to a life my mother has so carefully granted me.

I’m a screwup

Not worthy of this life of ease

Of perfection.

And yet

The only mess I’m living in

Is this corner

Caged by a roof forced over my head.

It’s a constant war

In which I never fight back

A war that leaves me bruised and bloody

From words of insufficient care.

How can I be a screwup

When I cook up love for my siblings

And serve them nothing but a good life?

How can I be a screwup

When my room overflows with words and knowledge

Like my “A+” brain?

How can I be a screwup

When the life I’ve chosen

Is the one that puts a smile on not only my face but others?

So mother,

Now that I’m out of my corner

And living my life as a perfectly good screwup,

Let me ask you this:

How can I be a screwup

When you screwed up way more than me?