It's hard to believe I was created with love.
It's easier to think I was created out of obligation.
My brothers were raised with love.
But I was raised by obligation.
But I feel guilty being hurt and feeling this way.
Because I wasn't raised by obligation.
Because I look around and see things that were given to me out of love.
Not an obligation.
I see a guitar my dad built, staying up till 4:00am
But that memory is tainted with being left out till 8:00pm in the winter and no apologies.
I see a tiger, filled with beans and tears. Made with love and surprise.
Tainted by child cries and midnight tear dries.
I see Attack on titan merch, filled with laughs and accidents.
But I also see taunts that hit too close and teasing that feel like stabs.
I see makeup, filled with late night laughs and midnight talks
But remarks that draw blood and comments that cut follow the memories
I see bedding, fluffy with jokes, rambling and teasing "shut ups" from mum.
And not so funny screaming matches that i zone out too
Am I not good enough? For them to place first?
Was I too forgetful to not pick up before work?
Was I too ignorant to know that he was picking up drugs with the tiger?
Was i too stupid to figure out that he didn't want to watch AOT with me?
Was I so boring? that she would drop me for the next best thing?
Was I too easy? That my hurt could be used as ammunition in a war against my love?
Was it too much? So much that I had to be left alone. Like a loud toy that wont shut up?
Was I too loud? That my rambling had to be drowned out with cheap pop?
Was I too eager? To finally have a brother? That I realised that he didn't even like me that much?
Was it too simple? That my hurt could've been anyone elses with the right words
I am loud because I was drowned out.
I am naive because I got hurt when I was aware
I am angry because i was ignored when I was sad
I am strong because sympathy was meant for the ones that were hurt more
. . No one is the villain and that is what makes me confused.
My dad loves me, I'm convinced, but sometimes it's tainted with claustrophobia from a too tight car.
My brother loved me once, I'm positive, but it's stained with tears and strength I didn't know I had.
My other brother loves me, I'm certain, but that certainty is stabbed and leaking into insecurity.
My sister loves me, I'm sure, but that isn't going to heal the cuts from sharp comments.
My mum loves me, I have no doubt, but the doubt leaks in with her saying I have nothing to cry for.
As if I didn't get betrayed by the same family she did.
