The birth of a child, I’ve always been told it was a joyous occasion.
In my youth I would’ve believed that to be so.
That naïve notion would die with time.

Upon entrance to this world I was called a bundle of joy.
Today I feel as if I’m merely a burden.
“I’m proud of the man you’re becoming”
Despite being said to me by those claiming to love me most, I know these words to be nothing but lies.

Some would tell me to believe it’s just tempers flaring.
I however, sense much more.
My siblings and I enter.
With her face being the stage a scowl takes the center, too disgusted with the crowd to even wave.
I can feel her disdain seep into the deepest crevices of my heart.
Bundle of misery seems to describe me more accurately.

She begins to speak; my name takes its usual place right beside the word useless.
Someone should’ve told me existing was a crime.
Even though I am told it was planned, I know for sure my conception was a whim of lust.
Bundle of joy, no, just a mistake.