Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance

Song to Say Goodbye

by unitedsuck007 2 reviews

Not a story, just me being angsty.

Category: My Chemical Romance - Rating: PG-13 - Genres: Drama - Published: 2012-06-21 - Updated: 2012-06-21 - 1201 words

Written around Christmas 2009/New Year's 2010.

Title and selected lyrics in italics are from Placebo's Song to Say Goodbye.

Please do not disphier from your reading of this that I am a horrible person. I shared a very hostile relationship with my mother.

xo lorna

You are one of God's mistakes

You crying, tragic, waste of skin


I have never known your love. On paper I am your sixteen year old daughter. In real life I am nothing less than a stranger.

They say maternal love is one of the most fiercest, most loyal, most undying adoration a child can benefit from. That the warm embrace and the gentle, soothing words of alm supplied by your mother is the most important and superlative experiences a person can experience. That the love and bond between a mother and child is so strong and durable it is rarely broken. That a mother would quite happily take a bullet to the head if it meant bringing peace and prosperity to her offspring.

I would not know that.

I grew up without you. I grew up without warm hugs, without sweet kisses along my forehead. I grew up without a mother to greet me when I came home from school. I was the girl, who, in front of my eleven-year-old classmates in Fourth Class on Mother's Day had to shamefacedly admit I didn't know my mother. I didn't have a mom, a mummy, a momma, a maternal figure, a mum. I had a dad and two siblings and that was it. I blushed pink because everyone else got collected by their mothers at hometime, got smothered with kisses and strangled with cuddles when they rushed from the classroom. I was bombarded with questions; 'why don't you have a mom, Lorna? Everyone has one, silly.' 'Did she die? Is she up in Heaven?' 'No mother?! Who takes you shopping?'

I'm well aware of how it aches

And you still won't let me in

The truth is I do have a mother. I very much do.

You look exactly like me; I get nothing from Dad. I have your fair blond locks, but I've choppped mine now and dyed them jet black. My heterochromia is inspired by you; that was another reason I hated you, because you gave me weird-looking eyes that were unusual and thus I was bullied for it. One green and one blue; Dad always assured me, as a young child, when I would be sobbing and kneading my eyes after a turbulent day at school, that I was as cute as button and would be breaking hearts when I was older. (Dad, ever politically correct, would never decisively say I would break either boys' or girls' hearts.) He had to do that because you weren't there.

I get your shortness as well; years between us but we were only seperated by an inch. You have that horrible expression that I have as well; the blank, cynical sneer that makes me look so perojative. For the first five years of my life, when I actually had the displeasure of living with you, I used hate it when you'd pull that face. I used hate it; you look like you're installing an onipresent mock. Even as a child I found you repulsive. It took me a long time to figure out I resemble that look to this day.

I don't like you anymore

You trying, crying waste of space

So yes, I do have a mother. I just don't consider you one.

I, in my entire existence, have never called you mom. I saw no point to. You are nothing to me; I've even grown semi-indifferent to you. Because I'm still technically a child, due to Irish law, I have have those fucking moronic phone conversations with you. I have to have the unpleasure of listen to you insult and berate me for twenty minutes every month. If I'm in a reasonable enough mood I'll be kind and polite; hello Frances, how are you doing, how's the weather across the water. Then you start shovelling abuse out of that fucking pill-sucking mouth of yours and I get so fucking angry I can't goddamn well see straight. I don't deserve to be called a bitch or a punk-slut; I'm your fucking daughter.

And even though we were working class and dirt poor, Dad is really just a fountain of awesomeness. My father is an excellent role model and has done an amazing job at raising me; you know he doesn't swear at me, he helps me with homework, and is totally supportive of everything I do? Yeah, no one fucking holds a candle to my Dad; he had to be a mother and father when you two split up. He knows my favourite bands, he knows I write fanfiction, he knows references from LOTMS, for God's sake. I cannot fucking thank the man enough, raising like four kids with fuckall cash and he's semi-disabled. All that and in East fucking Belfast too.

Your needle and your damage done

Remains a sordid twist of fate

And then your sick little junkie lifestyle; if there's one fucking reason to go Straight Edge, it's that. Everytime I see alcohol sloshing in a glass or some drunkard staggering along the road, clutching at nearby walls and yelling jibberish, I think of you and I feel so sick that you're part of my fucking genetic makeup. I hate that everyone else, what seems like literally everyfuckingone else on this planet has a loving mother and I don't. My step-sister has her mother and they meet up every week; she's more of a mother than you, she's bought me presents and knows my friends and everything. All my mates have their moms. Even my cat gets on with it's mom.

Now I'm trying to wake you up

To pull you from the liquid sky

But you know what? I overcame you. That's right, I overfuckingcame you. That might sound like some shit Disney movie but goddamn, it's true. I am not a drug-addict nor a raging alcoholic. I don't verbally and emotionally abuse my children and my husband; I'm not like you when it comes to what's beyond the blond hair and the perojative smile. I do well in school, get straight A's, and my teacher reccommended me to a publishing house recently. I have friends that I love and in turn they think I'm on okay person too. I have a good job, good people and generally I am very content with life now.

No thanks to you. Harsh, but it must be said.

I must go now because it's started to rain and the graveyard always gets so muddy and swamp-like when it does. I'm only in my Vans and they're not really good for the rainy weather, never really have been. Your grave is looking nice, by the way; too nice for you really. Flowers fan out around it and crucifixes drape over your headstone. I find it bizarre that my surname is also inscribed here; I often forget we were ever even related.

The voice that makes me cry. A song to say goodbye.


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