Conception

my button eyes are watering,
polka dot, plaid and paper bag patches,
are torn,
yet I sew myself together with shame,
no one appreciates my shape
they mock my imperfection,
bash me with their standards,
dissect me with expectation.

one morning,
my desire consumed me
thus I wept,
I thought up an plan,
I'd attempt to evaporate,
savor the flavor of misery and dissapear.

you were infatuated with frustration,
you loved to drag the doomed further down,
but I assure you'll pay,
the day I died,
you rue the day I live and breathe,
the day you held her hand,
the first day you set your sights on me,
to feed,
to bleed dry,
to repeat inside your deranged sight of mind,
"my little darling,
you were born to die."

I am Misery's Daughter,
tied down and broken,
forever I shall reside in cages,
I am Misery's Daughter,
naive with eyes that light,
 born to die.