June 16, 2014

i have a million and zero things on my mind. its late but perhaps this was my lullaby. 

its fathers day, and everyone is posting on how their dad is the most awesome, happy pictures of dads, granddads, etc. 

i have none. or rather, as good as not having. i have but he’s not around. he was my world but that world’s disappeared. 

i am slightly bitter, i felt a tinge of envy but thats about it.

on the other hand, you are my world, supposedly, because he’s not around. but yet i can never be good enough for you. i am your mirror, and it certainly isnt my true self. i would come home more often, if i didnt associate it with ‘come home and clean your room’, ‘i cannot stand your mess!’, ‘dont stress me with your mess’, ‘you need to lose weight’. is that all there is to me? the tiny voice says yes, but another voice says no freaking way. i come back and quickly unpack because i know you dont like mess, but the only thing you say is why cant i just keep the padlock properly, because in my haste i forgot where i put it. my fault but its not like its a super big deal. i’ll just go and buy another one, you dont have to keep harping on my 1 little error when i’ve done 300 other good things. 

i’m just not good enough for you. i’ve never had a positive thing about me come from you. so i lap it all up when your friends lavish praise on me. and you blame me for my sulleness and attitude? i just dont want to say anything more because i’ve given up, i dont feel like there’s a point anymore. i am attracted to other people who see me for who i am, like me for what i am, as moths are attracted to light. and i cannot do that for people who remain negative towards me because it so hurts my heart. it so demolishes the walls of praise others have built up, that inner fragile core, and it takes too much energy to build it up again and again. and so i choose to steel myself, not that its completely bullet proof, but at least some armour is better than none.

scratches are better than gashes, and they heal with nary a scar. 



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