Mom, Please Love Me
I have a secret.
Every year on my birthday, I'm taken to the blood donation room and made to give 400cc of blood. All because my mom once told me that the blood running through my veins belongs to a rapist. This is the only way I can wash away my original sin.
Because of those words, at eighteen years old and weighing less than 80 pounds, I found myself lying on that donation chair once again.
But the second I stepped out of the donation room, a document came flying at my face. I looked up in shock and met my mother's icy stare:
"Sign it, and get the hell out of my house."
It was a legal notice cutting all ties with me.
I stood there frozen, cold down to my bones.
Mom—didn't you say that once I'd donated blood eighteen times, I'd finally be your clean child?