Love. (Writing.)

Love is a tricky word. It comes in every form, every emotion, every action. It means passion, adoration, pain, ignorance, melancholy, even rage.

Its a fickle word. Constantly changing and always fluctuating. A word that will kill you and wrap your wounds tenderly with the cleanest bandages. 

Love is hard to decipher. Love can look like a wax figure. It looks (sounds) human (like the words  I Love you).) but you know something is off. That something isn't right. That's a fucking phony. 

I've figured out that my mom stopped loving me; its hard to ignore something that's been in your face for years. It's hard to be mad at her in the end. She's a teenager trapped in an adult's body. I wish I could fix her, let her become an adult, and let her process her traumas instead of laughing them off. And its so out of my reach to even begin to change our relationship. Autistic teenagers are defiant and communication is out of the question. It makes change impossible because communication is the foundation for change.

Its selfish of me to ask for her time. I drained her youth, her money, her love, her passion for life, her willpower and emotion. 

I don't want to be selfish and a burden to her anymore.

I'm tired of being a selfish burden.

All I want is for her to love me the same way she did when I was little.