I’m that one child.
The child whose parents completely ignored them.
Who never got make their own choices.
Whose parents never took seriously,
yet put their sibling on a pedestal.
The one whose mother criticizes everything they do.
The one whose father is emotionally unavailable.
I’m that one kid.
The kid whose always been made fun of.
Who was always picked dead last.
Whose peers wanted nothing to do with,
because I was too weird, too crazy, too me.
The one who was raped yet punished.
The one who was never believed.
I’m that one adult.
The adult that cannot escape from their past.
Who keeps stumbling and falling.
Who can’t ever seem to act normal,
and burns out their therapist.
The one who rarely gets invited to anything.
The one who rotates through friends.
I’m that one partner.
The one that is never sure of themselves.
Who doesn’t know what a normal relationship is.
Who gets built up by their partner,
only to be left and abandoned in the end.
The one who cries out for companionship.
The one who would do anything to make it better.
I’m that one.
The one that everyone keeps at arm’s length.
The one who has a PhD in borderline, depression, panic, and anxiety,
who wants to control them, but can’t ever seem to do it.
Who wants nothing more in the world to just be normal.
The one who constantly thinks about suicide.
Who doesn’t know why I don’t just do it already.
But instead cries themselves to sleep every night.
I’m the one.
The one that is broken.
Who struggles every single day.
Who hears “just stop being sad”.
As if I can help it.
I’m trying my best.
All alone, no one can do it for me.
Nor would they do it with me.
I’m that one.