The son was never alive. He was a dead mask that was sewn on your daughter’s living skin when she was born; now she’s old enough to break the stitches and take the mask off completely.
And I think somewhere deep down you knew what you did to her. You remember every stitch you laced into her flesh and you could always see the scars.
And now that you’re dead I’ll always look back on some unexplained things about you and wonder… did your family do the same thing to you?
Yes. And imagine my horror when I see the same scars on my child, ones I didn’t put there and thought I had taught them to protect against. It’s a slow and horrifying realization that if you don’t sew on your child’s mask, the world will do it for them.
![the beautiful son is dead. long live the joyful daughter [cw: slurs, body horror(?)]](https://hexbear.net/pictrs/image/0e54646b-521d-498a-90fd-61f23c53b88e.jpeg){kind=link}
Hmm I think my experience is different.
The son was never alive. He was a dead mask that was sewn on your daughter’s living skin when she was born; now she’s old enough to break the stitches and take the mask off completely.
And I think somewhere deep down you knew what you did to her. You remember every stitch you laced into her flesh and you could always see the scars.
And now that you’re dead I’ll always look back on some unexplained things about you and wonder… did your family do the same thing to you?
god damn, that goes hard
this is also very good
Yes. And imagine my horror when I see the same scars on my child, ones I didn’t put there and thought I had taught them to protect against. It’s a slow and horrifying realization that if you don’t sew on your child’s mask, the world will do it for them.