I don't understand anymore why my mother acts the way she does. She is a ***** who doesn't care about anyone but herself. If she doesn't like something, it doesn't happen. She hates my father and his girlfriend. I call my father's girlfriend my stepmother because it's easier than explaining that their not married nor do they plan to (6 years and counting.) She screamed at me for hours telling me that she's not my stepmother (I cried myself to sleep). I say it for convenience. My mother's a total *****, but I wonder if that's hereditary.

Sometimes
I think
That I am
Just an
Afterthought

There is no rhyme or reason
To what happens in my house
Tis the season
For family spats
And watching bad movies
There's presents round the Christmas tree
And cookies by the fire
There are snowball fights
And decorating
And hate filled words abound
There are family squabbles
Far and wide
For Christmas is the season
For hours and hours of hating yourself
For no particular reason.

sometimes, I dream of a hero.
To take me a way.
He'll come in the dead of night,
Save me from the fight,
Make me all shiny and new.
He will take the window, away to a new land,
Where no one knows me, and I don't need to make a stand.
One day, my hero will come,
Taking me far away.

there are stars out tonight.
all pretty and glimmering.
like diamonds in a necklace.
i see them very clearly.
when I am lying down in the dirt.

I don't think you understand.
I love you.
You are my stepmother
(Not wicked at all no matter what Brother says)
How could I not?
But you think I am ungrateful, rotten, trash on your shoes.
It must be true (you would never lie).
So I must ask,
How do I change?
I will change everything about myself for you,
So you will love me too.
You would never be so cruel as to stop me from doing this,
Would you?
So the question remains,
What shoul I do?
I will ******, steal, vandalize, and injure.
All for you, Stepmother.
I love you.
Why don't you love me too?

I don't think you really know
How much your opinion means to me.
You love my father
But not me.
I get that, I do.
I don't love me either.
But what can I do
To make you love me too?

The real monster
Is not under our beds
They lurk and hunt
Inside our heads
We can't seem to find
Out where they went
So we take out our anger
On people instead
So when a bottle
Breaks over your head
Try to remember
The monsters instead