words are thrown
the way a machine spews bullets
and stains passionate red,
unlike your parents forgotten love,
screaming only defeat, and that
you were for naught

punches are swung,
like bombs that arent made of fire,
leaving something much more permanent
than ash and tears,  
an impression of what they thought of you

ice cream is dropped,
at a party and on a dress,
as your face flushes with embarrassment,
and while people laugh,
finally understanding why
*you are not the favorite child