When people talk about everything thats wrong with kids these days,
I say to just look at how they are raised.
I was taught to judge people first by their face,
and second my how much money their father made.

I was taught that if it was weird, it was gay,
but if it was actually gay, nature had made a mistake.
I was told that the kids with cuts on their arms were only looking for attention,
and that the differences between us could be seen in complexion.

My brother was raised exactly the same way,
but every day I am reminded that he never changed.
And when I open my mouth I am accused of brainwashing him,
but I he still doesn’t care even when I get him to listen.

I only escaped out of necessity,
when LGBT became a part of me,
and I couldn’t bear to look in the mirror because I only knew one type of beauty,
when I had to accept that I would drown without therapy.

The world looked a lot different through orange pill bottle goggles;
I could finally see that the apple had to fall far from the tree,
or I would become part of this society that kills every dream,
and tells you there are endless possibilities then ties you down with material things.

I spent three years breaking myself into pieces,
trying to find my broken heart and replace it with one that did not have lines drawn at every divide.
Every minute of it hurt, but not more than the hate I had for myself,
or that awful feeling that I had hated someone for just being themself.

Still, on the inside I am stained.
I am marked from every time my family spit a venomous name.
For awhile I thought that what they didn’t know, couldn’t hurt me,
but then I spent an entire weekend under my bed because their words left me so empty.

But this is the price I pay for privacy.
This is what comes from being a wolf in a family of sheep.
It’s more like being in shackles than wearing false clothing;
I can’t even howl at the moon because what if they heard me.

If this is just how they were raised, then who should I blame?
When does a person become at fault for not being able to look past the things so deeply ingrained?
Who am I to ask them to use their brain and think for a change,
instead of doing what their parents taught them was okay?

I am the daughter that can’t bring a girlfriend home.
There is a reason that they will never get to hear this poem,
because I am their daughter who locks herself away in her room and tells friends she’s busy,
I am their daughter with out-of-control anxiety and depression that they don't bother to see.

I spent three years falling apart and I wouldn’t take their hugs.
I was always holding myself together because I knew that I would never let go,
but it’s funny how having your arms trapped around you feels just like a straight jacket,
and you can only take it off when you realize that you aren’t alone.

There are thousands of kids diagnosing themselves on the internet because their parents won’t listen,
and thousands more who hide everything they are because they just can’t take anymore scars.
But what I’m saying is the opposite of comforting,
because there are hundreds of thousands of people just like me.

When people talk about what’s wrong with kids these days,
I know that the ones they’re talking about are the kids who struggle every day,
not the kids who turn the keys that bind our chains,
and all I can think about is was this really just how they were raised?