Good grades — that’s what they wanted.
But I don’t have them.
I failed.
I have to repeat.
That’s all they see.
A number.
A score.
Never me.
I live in this house —
someone who isn’t my father,
a mother who doesn’t understand,
a grandma losing her mind.
Perfect, right?
Does love have requirements, I ask.
I know I’m not enough —
not for you, not for anyone.
If I’m not good on paper,
am I good at all?
Am I not a person?
I ask myself this
while drowning in pills,
begging my mind to stop.
Am I not good enough?
Would I be worth something
if I didn’t fail?
My father —
this stranger I’m supposed to run to.
He asks, Do you want to leave?
How can I answer
when my heart splits apart
like glass under my feet?
I step on my own pieces —
I bleed.
Why do I have to change my whole life
for you —
when you’ve never changed for me?
You say you’ll give me a good life,
but will you give me a father?
Will you be someone
I can stand beside and say,
This is my dad,
without lying to myself?
When will I stop being scared
to speak to you?
To let you see me —
just me —
no mask, no makeup.
You’re just a stranger
with my blood in your veins.
A stranger called Dad.
It’s July 11th.
I failed.
I have to do it all again —
same walls, same people,
same empty room.
No one gets it.
No one knows how death sits beside me,
laughing at my grades,
at my tears,
at my fear.
A bottle of pills on my bed —
my best friend.
How many times have I wanted out?
Too many.
When I cry, it’s not just tears —
it’s my heart trying to claw its way out.
I don’t want to cry.
I don’t want to look weak.
I don’t want to be this —
this failure, this disappointment,
this girl too scared to jump
but too tired to stay.
Sixteen years —
and every single year
I keep that little kid alive —
the one who dreamed
of being good,
of making everyone proud.
If she saw me now,
she’d feel so ashamed.
She’d want to hide me
like a stain on her dress.
No one gets it.
No one will.
I feel trapped in my own skin.
I feel the air leave me.
I want to run —
but I can’t move.
I want to jump —
but I’m scared to fall.
So I drink the pills anyway,
thinking maybe, just maybe,
I’ll slip away quiet.
But then I remember her —
that kid who laughed,
who played tag in the sun,
who believed love
didn’t have requirements.
But that’s her —
not me.
She’s gone.
Is she gone?
God, I don’t know.
I wish someone would hear me —
just once —
hear how it feels
to fail at being who they want.
If I’m not an A student,
I’m nothing.
If I don’t measure up,
I don’t deserve to feel.
It’s never enough —
never will be.
Sure, I failed a grade —
but I haven’t failed at living.
Not yet.
And I wish
one day
I will.
Love,
Modistica.