"but broken crayons still colour the same, you see." you said to the furious eight-year-old girl in front of you.

"it's your fault, ma!"
said the girl who had just a minute ago accidentally sat on her crayons and broken them.

but obviously, it was your fault. because i said so.
"i'm sorry."
you kept saying, but it couldn't be heard over my constant "i hate you, i hate you, i hate you."

but you still kept apologizing, as you rocked me to sleep in your arms.