Sometimes, I want to rip the heads off the ignorant, rip the limbs off the cruel, drink their blood, dance on their corpses etc. But I don’t because I remember how beautiful, and kind, and graceful my mother was. And if I had danced on the corpses of my fallen enemies, she would’ve stopped me just to tell me to be more humble about it.
When I see her in Hel, (it isn’t as scary as you think, it’s just where my family is from, can’t pick your family, etc,) She’d rip my head off, my limbs, have my blood seep through sprinklers on our front lawn for eternity, etcetera etcetera.
So you’re alive.
I’m beautiful, kind, graceful and humble because my mommy is scarier than I could ever be. I am a simple amalgamation of what the world around me is. Confused on how to feel about these words? Well, my dad’s the writer, and he never said a word. He’s the more vicious of the two, but this isn’t about his glory and shit. Think of your mother.
My mother comes to check on me every year in the spring and on, in the flowers. The inimitable flowers. Unless it’s in the form of cakes. Cakes are the best. Best at being the best, cakes. Her bloom keeps me from dancing on the lifeless bodies of your beloved. Smile for the cameras.
My mother’s power lies in her ability to make you stop and think about your actions. The tiny words you speak. Sometimes, I forget who’s scarier of the two. I haven’t even mentioned my brothers’ dreadful and sisters’ terror. I love you so I believe in your gods. For your sake, I love you.
In the end, you absolutely do not want to see Me.