Runt

Once upon a time I conjured up a spectacular notion,

I wondered what would be, if my mother had an abortion.

The very thought made me tingle with excitement,

The idea of not having been there, near crying every single lonely night.

My teenage mind confuzzled with hormones,

The bloody, lonely nights with the blades and bruises I sought for,

Broadcasts of laughter ascending from the ground floor.

I did undergo pensive melancholy as the mawkish sounds bounced of the door.

A prisoner to my dirty mind, intrusive thoughts,

Which I tried to treat and they too, soon, became a lost cause.

It strangely seeming as if the odds are against me,

Or was it/is it just the self fulfilling prophecy I have come to be?