Mom doesn't me. I do not mean me physically because I am there but emotionally mom does not see me. She doesn't see the tears that form a puddle at the end of my pillow. She does not see the hair pulled from my head because of stress.
Mom doesn't see me. I do not mean emotionally I mean mentally. She doesn't understand the discomfort I feel when everything is bottled up but I can not speak to her about it.  She doesn't see how far apart we actually are, even though we live in the same house.
Mom doesn’t see that no matter how hard I try the bed pulls me closer. My blankets have covered me and kept me warm at night more than she ever has. She doesn’t realize my pillow is the shoulder I lean on when I need someone.  
Mom doesn’t see that I'm depressed. She doesn’t see the emotional pain I go through because I have 7 smiles locked away in my dresser. One for every day of the week.  
Mom doesn't see I'm suicidal. Although I have never told her most parents know already. She doesn’t know that I've tried killing myself more than once.  
Mom doesn’t see my eagerness to leave. She doesn’t see that my mind is going crazy trying to figure out a way to stay here and not be miserable. She doesn’t see the bag I've packed away just incase I run away.  
Mom doesn’t see me. The real me. The one who is eager to explore, the one who writes and sings. She doesn’t see that I can be loving. She doesn't see who I want to be. Instead she believes I'm trying to be someone I am not.  
Mom doesn’t see me. Maybe I don’t see me either.