People say the youngest has it all easy.
They say she's loved more.
They say she gets everything she wants.
They say she doesn’t get hurt.
People say so much about her...

But they never really saw anything.

They didn’t see her cry late at night,
because no one ever hushed her during the day.
She searched for love in every soul she met outside,
because she never felt it within her own home.

She was “just a mistake”—
that’s what they called her.

No one wiped her tears.
No one held her hand.
She had to teach herself how to be strong.
She had to grow up before she was ready.

Her voice was never heard—
just ignored.

Why do I love
so hard,
so deeply,
when I know
it’s only going to hurt me more?

When I know
it’ll just tear open
old wounds—
make the scars bleed
all over again,
like they do
every time I care,
every time I love.

It always ends the same:
with me feeling
like I’ll never be enough,
like I’ll never be the one
they truly want.

Just a maybe.
The one who loved
too hard,
too deeply.
Who smiled through the day,
and let her eyes bleed
through the night.

Cold.
Unheld.
No warm arms
to wrap around her,
to whisper,
"You are enough"
"You matter"
"You mean something"

But those words never came.
Just silence.
Just pain.
And more scars—
fresh,
red,
and aching.

a kind of love
everyone else seems to have—
soft,
gentle,
like being seen
and still being held?

The kind of love
where I mean something
just by existing.
Where someone chooses me,
not despite,
but because of
the mess I am,
the emotions I carry,
the storm I sometimes become.

Where being me
is enough.

The home she never had—
the one she always dreamt of.
A picture-perfect, loving family,
with a supportive dad,
a gentle, caring mom,
and an older sibling who protected her.

A home without fights,
without slammed doors,
without the quiet sobs
behind bathroom walls,
or the midnight tears
that no one saw—
because if they did,
they’d only judge.

A home where she didn’t have to hide,
where she could speak without fear,
where anxiety didn’t live in her chest
like a shadow that never left.

A place where she didn’t need to write
just to feel heard—
because someone, finally, listened.

Where love wasn’t something
she searched for in strangers’ arms,
because she had felt it
right there, at home.

She built that home in dreams each night—
because it never stood where she lived.

how come I'm the one left unloved?
How come I have no friends to turn to?
How come I'm always the one they judge —
never truly seen, never truly known?
How come there's no shoulder for my tears,
no arms to hold me when it hurts?
How come I keep wishing someone,
anyone, would care?
How come I still want to fit in,
even when it means losing pieces of myself?
How come I'm not me,
but who they want me to be?
And how come —
in the quietest moments —
I wonder if I should even exist at all?

If tears were red,
they'd have seen —
my white pillow stained by morning,
red marks blooming on the bedsheet,
on my face,
on my shirt.
My eyes, still puffy,
still red
from the bleeding of the night before —
not from wounds,
but from weeping.
Eyes not meant to bleed,
yet they did.

And still,
no one noticed
the colourless blood I’ve spilled.