I wish they would try to understand. I wish they had the capacity to comprehend.
I’m not asking them to know my agony. I’m not asking them to change their lives.
But where is the compassion?
Why are they so thoughtless, when they have been told so many times?
When I am trying hard not to remember, why do they strive to remind me?
A good day, and I’m feeling better, only for them to hurt me once again.
Not out of malice, I do not think.
Does that mean I should not be angry?
Well, I am. I am raging now.
Why am I never first? Why do I not matter?
I worry endlessly about other people.
I question my thoughts and feelings and those things I have or perhaps should have said.
I never want to inflict hurt on another. Ever.
Is it so wrong, to want some of that back?
Am I over sensitive perhaps?
A rare good day that has now turned bad.
Perhaps that is my fault too?
Yet, I find myself blaming her instead.
That poor child.
The one who was forgotten. The one who was left.
Forever hated. Forever alone.
Forced to choose a half life, or face certain death.
And what am I doing? The same as them, surely?
Or maybe I am much worse.
Because I am sure that I hate her most.
Much more than they ever could.
Can they see she still lives within me?
Maybe that is why they hurt me so.