I was selfish. There I said it.

I was desperate for love. For attention.

For someone to see me. To want me.

To not control me.

All the control. All the yelling. All the anger.

You had to love me. We shared blood.

You said it often.

I have to love you. I don’t have to like you.

No one liked me. That’s how it seemed.

I was a curse in the bloodline.

I was angry. I was alone.

You got older.

And weaker.

You asked questions. I couldn’t answer.

You died with anger on your tongue.

For me.

I didn’t mean to be selfish.

I was a baby.

I needed adults.

But the adults were selfish too.

When I die will I have anger on my tongue too?