I look at us,
this broken mess we've become,
and all I feel is anger—
anger that we were supposed to be a unit,
a team,
a family—
but we are nothing but pieces of something that doesn't exist anymore.
You failed me.
Each one of you.
I'm lost in the rubble of what we were,
in the emptiness you left behind
when you choose your own needs
over what we were supposed to share.
I try to remember the good days,
but I can't.
Every happy memory feels like a lie now,
a story I told myself to keep the pain at bay.
I envy the people who have real families,
who don't know the taste of hollow promises,
who never feel the ache of knowing
that the ones who are supposed to love you
are the ones who destroy you the most.
And you—
you with your empty words and broken actions—
you don't even see it,
do you?
How much you hurt me
by pretending that everything was okay
when it wasn't.
You still don't get it.
You still don't care.
And the anger builds up,
like fire in my chest,
raging against the truth I've had to swallow:
We will never be whole again.
You broke us.
And I hate you for it.