I looked at old photographs we took. Do you ever wonder what happened to him? Did you even know who he was he? Who I was? He was so unbroken, I was so unbroken. No one had hurt him as much to make him want to be alone.

I mean, he was hurt, sure, but it was the kind of pain he thought he could manage at the time. Now he doesn’t want pain(I don’t want to get hurt at all).

When will we get a little shred of kindness? When will we be properly loved? Again? (Was that one time not proper?)

I want more than my little silent-screaming existence, I want more than to be a smear of blood on your boring-modern-white-padded-room walls but,

but,

but, but, but…Do I even want at all?

I don’t know who I am anymore, who we are. And I’m not sure I even want to know. And is it fear(fear of what?) or something else? I want to find out, I don’t want to find out—either way, it’s all the same: we never get to know.

So tell me, do you get to?

My signature and name still aren’t famous, my works aren’t hanging on gallery walls, I’m not as smart as you thought I was, I’m not happy, I’m not successful, perfect, pretty, passionate, kind. But you don’t get to know, do you? You left him behind, not once turning back to see if he followed. “All that potential, and he threw it away.”(Even now you’re still saying that.)

When will you truly fucking believe in me? (Believe me?) I’m not the flawless daughter you wanted, so you’ll never get to know her. And you’ll never get to know him and anyone else that comes after.

No matter what changes, you’ll still see your little girl—the one that you carried in your womb for nine months, she was shy and silly and smart. And you’ll never see the son that never wished to be here, you’ll never see the struggling idiot, anxious and angry and awkward and desperate. Grabbing onto hope by a thin little thread. (Because if I’m going to suffer, it has to be all cute, right?)

But when you’re in a bad mood, fuck everything I’ve just said. I don’t fit in your perfect little picture, it’s not like you can paint how hard I work to live. How much my lungs fight to breath. All you see is a lazy good-for-nothing, wasting-away wasted-potential.

You suffocate me. And you’ll never get to know. I hope the pain of raising a failure(in your eyes) burns as much as mine.