Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance
Mother, May I?
Mother, may I tell you something?
I don’t think you know me.
Sure, I’m your son and you love me, but know me? You do not. You think you do though, and that, I think, is your first mistake.
Take this moment, for example, when you think I am upstairs, listening to music. I am not upstairs, nor are my ears cradling earphones. If they were, and catchy rhythms were flowing into my head, my eyes would not have been as wet as they are right now.
You do not know how much I cry...cry for you.
If you did, you would not think I was upstairs, listening to music. See how everything is connected? It’s like a jigsaw puzzle, waiting to be put together. You used to be so good at doing that, but now, you’re just having a hard time finding the correct pieces.
I’m trying to help you, honest to God, I am. That’s why I am not upstairs, listening to music.
Mother, may I ask you to look outside your bedroom door?
I stare through two green eyes and see you in your bed.
Your husband is next to you with his arm around your bare shoulder. He strokes your hair and places his lips on your exposed collar bone. Lifting his head up, he moves his mouth in the shape of, “I love you.”
I can imagine your eyes twinkle before you kiss him passionately. He does not really return your emotion, from what I can see. All he feels is greed.
I have to look away because I know what’s coming up. After all, I watch the same scene every night, hoping for some change. But it never does.
Mother, may I tell you something else?
You don’t know your husband.
I know what you see in him; he is tall, blond, and handsome. He is charming and knows exactly what to say at any given time. You think of him as God and you want me to too. You want me to call him, “Dad.”
But I refuse.
He is nothing like my real father, whose lack of height and brown hair I inherited. My real father is a good man; honest and kind and caring. My real father loves me. Your husband does not. Your husband does not even like me. He lets me know this when you are not here; when he rules the house.
Mother, you do not know that your husband hits me. You do not know because I cover up all the bruises and marks. You do not know because I always keep a smile on my face. You do not know because I do not tell you.
He threatened to kill me if I ever ratted him out.
Mother, may I confess another thing?
I’m scared.
I’m scared for you and for me...for both of us.
While you are in your bed, moaning out your husband’s name in what you think is pleasure, thinking that I cannot hear you because I am upstairs listening to music, I am always right outside. Often times, I am sobbing but you’re too busy to hear.
I wonder what will happen to me if your husband sticks around. More importantly, I wonder what will happen to you. Will he ever start hurting you too? Will he threaten to kill you if you told?
Mother, if that ever happens and I come to know, I’ll call my father; my real father. I would tell him to beat the lights out of this guy who hurt you and me both..
Would you like that?
Would you thank me?
Or would you crawl to your husband and help him stand up?
I’m scared to know the answer.
Mother, may I tell you one last thing?
I love you.
I think it is for that reason, and not fear of death, that I don’t tell anyone about what your husband does.
I always want you to be happy and he seems to accomplish that.
I’m willing to wait and suffer patiently until you see my scars and ask about them; you will have to eventually. When you do, I will tell you the truth. I will tell you that I am never upstairs, listening to music.
I will let you get to know me.
Until then, sweet mother o’ mine, I will stay outside your room and drown myself in tears.
I will continue to wish that I could somehow transport us back to that time when there was just you, me, and my father; my real father who never hit me.
I will keep on remembering those days when I would sit between you and my father, snuggling into the warmth. He would tell you he loves you, and you would say it back. Then, you both would speak the words to me in unison.
“We love you, Frankie.”
And we would all live happily ever after.
Kind of my feelings about my stepdad, only in Frank's point of view.
Read. Rate. Review. Pick one, two, or all three!
I didn't add this earlier, because I wasn't sure if it was important, but since somebody noticed, I'll assume that it is important:
Based slightly off the book You Don't Know Me (the first paragraph)
Mother, may I tell you something?
I don’t think you know me.
Sure, I’m your son and you love me, but know me? You do not. You think you do though, and that, I think, is your first mistake.
Take this moment, for example, when you think I am upstairs, listening to music. I am not upstairs, nor are my ears cradling earphones. If they were, and catchy rhythms were flowing into my head, my eyes would not have been as wet as they are right now.
You do not know how much I cry...cry for you.
If you did, you would not think I was upstairs, listening to music. See how everything is connected? It’s like a jigsaw puzzle, waiting to be put together. You used to be so good at doing that, but now, you’re just having a hard time finding the correct pieces.
I’m trying to help you, honest to God, I am. That’s why I am not upstairs, listening to music.
Mother, may I ask you to look outside your bedroom door?
I stare through two green eyes and see you in your bed.
Your husband is next to you with his arm around your bare shoulder. He strokes your hair and places his lips on your exposed collar bone. Lifting his head up, he moves his mouth in the shape of, “I love you.”
I can imagine your eyes twinkle before you kiss him passionately. He does not really return your emotion, from what I can see. All he feels is greed.
I have to look away because I know what’s coming up. After all, I watch the same scene every night, hoping for some change. But it never does.
Mother, may I tell you something else?
You don’t know your husband.
I know what you see in him; he is tall, blond, and handsome. He is charming and knows exactly what to say at any given time. You think of him as God and you want me to too. You want me to call him, “Dad.”
But I refuse.
He is nothing like my real father, whose lack of height and brown hair I inherited. My real father is a good man; honest and kind and caring. My real father loves me. Your husband does not. Your husband does not even like me. He lets me know this when you are not here; when he rules the house.
Mother, you do not know that your husband hits me. You do not know because I cover up all the bruises and marks. You do not know because I always keep a smile on my face. You do not know because I do not tell you.
He threatened to kill me if I ever ratted him out.
Mother, may I confess another thing?
I’m scared.
I’m scared for you and for me...for both of us.
While you are in your bed, moaning out your husband’s name in what you think is pleasure, thinking that I cannot hear you because I am upstairs listening to music, I am always right outside. Often times, I am sobbing but you’re too busy to hear.
I wonder what will happen to me if your husband sticks around. More importantly, I wonder what will happen to you. Will he ever start hurting you too? Will he threaten to kill you if you told?
Mother, if that ever happens and I come to know, I’ll call my father; my real father. I would tell him to beat the lights out of this guy who hurt you and me both..
Would you like that?
Would you thank me?
Or would you crawl to your husband and help him stand up?
I’m scared to know the answer.
Mother, may I tell you one last thing?
I love you.
I think it is for that reason, and not fear of death, that I don’t tell anyone about what your husband does.
I always want you to be happy and he seems to accomplish that.
I’m willing to wait and suffer patiently until you see my scars and ask about them; you will have to eventually. When you do, I will tell you the truth. I will tell you that I am never upstairs, listening to music.
I will let you get to know me.
Until then, sweet mother o’ mine, I will stay outside your room and drown myself in tears.
I will continue to wish that I could somehow transport us back to that time when there was just you, me, and my father; my real father who never hit me.
I will keep on remembering those days when I would sit between you and my father, snuggling into the warmth. He would tell you he loves you, and you would say it back. Then, you both would speak the words to me in unison.
“We love you, Frankie.”
And we would all live happily ever after.
Kind of my feelings about my stepdad, only in Frank's point of view.
Read. Rate. Review. Pick one, two, or all three!
I didn't add this earlier, because I wasn't sure if it was important, but since somebody noticed, I'll assume that it is important:
Based slightly off the book You Don't Know Me (the first paragraph)
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