There are so many things I want to tell you, but never will.
So many things that I can't even mask with another puff of smoke or a pill.
Believe me, these are not things you want to hear, like, "I love you," or "I had a great day at school today," or even, "Guess what? I made a 26 on the ACT on my first try."
Although the latter is true, I no longer wish to tell you these things anymore because this is my reality:
I resent you.
Yes, resent.
Resent.
Verb.
To feel bitterness at a circumstance or person.
I resent you for putting so much pressure on my ACT score and then when I finally tell you what I made you say, "Oh, okay."
As if all the work I put into school meant nothing to you in that moment even though all of my hard work, I do to please you.
I resent you for taking away the one person in my life that made me truly happy.
He was my light; my salvation.
Because you disapproved, whether it was of him or the effort I put into him, you took him from me.
You broke me.
Because of your version of 'protection' I did not feel the need to sleep anymore.
My pupils drowned in tears and my hands trembling from sweeping up the broken pieces of my heart all by myself.
I resent you for not taking me seriously when I told you I wanted to **** myself.
I resent you for telling me that my depression. the way I feel behind the mask of me that you created, was just a phase.
That I would get over it.
I resent you for not talking to me, just to see how I'm doing.
I would sit in my bedroom for hours marveling over self made cuts that burned under the holy water that was my tears.
I resent you for not wanting me.
You can tell me whatever you want, but I spent the first 12 years of my life making up stories about you and my mother because I couldn't remember who you were.
Where were you?
I resent you for not getting to know me, and assuming that because I am your daughter you know everything about me.
I resent you for trying to fix me and then claiming to read me like a book only to go and sit me on a shelf.
I resent you.
When I ran away, I expected you to take it as a sign.
It was a suicide attempt that you brushed off your shoulders because you refused to believe that I am troubled.
I resent you.
I resent you for accepting my fake smiles and posed happiness as the real deal when inside I am screaming into the void for you to realize that I am troubled.
That despite my best efforts, I am real.
I resent you.
Maybe we get along sometimes but that is my façade.
My way of mirroring acceptance regardless of its legitness.
My weakness is my ability to notice what you cannot comprehend.
I wake up every morning blasting death grips in my head phones, pondering the fixation of a life's worth of unsolved problems.
I've told you a thousand times of my achievements and of my feelings and those three dreadful words, "I love you."
I promise that somewhere deep inside my resent turns to love, but it is dangerous for someone like me to truly love.
And I promise that I am trying to get my tongue to forget how that tastes.
Because every time I say, "I love you,"
I resent you.