My parents didn’t love me.

So why would anyone else?

That thought lives

in the base of my skull—

not loud,

but always humming.

Like a house where no one says "I love you"

but the silence screams anyway.

My mother loved tevlevision

more than me.

Loved guilt.

Loved gaslighting.

Loved being the victim.

My father loved absence.

Loved the sound of the door shutting behind him.

Loved whatever was out there