Growing up as a foster
I remember one comment the most.
As if everyone spoke from the same brain. Shared the same mind.

“You should be THANKFUL
for your second chance.”
As if sadness was an unhealthy emotion.
Something to be ashamed of.

As if everyone deserves a second chance
but isn’t lucky enough to get it.
As if I was privileged
to receive what they wanted.

I know what you’re thinking.
“How would you know
if they deserved it or not?”
Such a simple answer.

They don’t have battle scars.
They don’t have the cuts and bruises
They are nothing like me.
Family intact.

Everyone says my life is such a gift.
But that means nothing
to someone who has seen a gift thrown
on the ground and called garbage.

I am not allowed to place value on my life.
If I am upset about how I’m treated by my second family I am “ungrateful”.
As if bad is good because I know worse?

Please excuse me while I consult
with my various mental disorders.
They are the only things
that listen to me anyway.

The new did not cut me,
but they squeeze lemon juice on it
and call it cleansing.
HEALING.

My body reacts on its own now.
Please don’t mind my fresh PTSD.
Please ignore my flash backs
and poor memory.

Disregard my need for perfection that I will never be satisfied with due to my BPD.
My low lows because of depression.
And don’t look at my paranoid phases.

I am mentally ill.
And my second chance didn’t fix that.
Much like the opposite
Mimicking a disease, it spread it.