Poisoned

Yes, it is I who is poisoned.
Not my work.
That may even be a good, solid contribution.

But nothing, no amount of good work,
will ever

redeem me

from my
unworthiness.

Born defectively,

never fixed.
Surplus to requirements.
Substandard goods.
Rejects.
This is where I fit in.

Because if I were okay,
my parents would have loved me.

This is the way the world goes.
Or not?

Maybe my parents did love me in their own, weird way.

Maybe they were the broken ones, breaking more going along.

We are all victims of victims.
How terribly true!
Can we change it???