always the child
who never got appreciated
just an unwanted child
trying her hardest
to be the perfect one—
just once.
trying her hardest
to be appreciated,
dying to hear:
“you did a great job,”
“the dish you cooked was very nice,”
“i’m proud of you,”
“you scored 98% in maths,”
“i’m proud of my daughter.”
she just wanted
to be loved.
to be seen.
to be appreciated.

People say the youngest has it all easy.
They say she's loved more.
They say she gets everything she wants.
They say she doesn’t get hurt.
People say so much about her...

But they never really saw anything.

They didn’t see her cry late at night,
because no one ever hushed her during the day.
She searched for love in every soul she met outside,
because she never felt it within her own home.

She was “just a mistake”—
that’s what they called her.

No one wiped her tears.
No one held her hand.
She had to teach herself how to be strong.
She had to grow up before she was ready.

Her voice was never heard—
just ignored.

Why do I love
so hard,
so deeply,
when I know
it’s only going to hurt me more?

When I know
it’ll just tear open
old wounds—
make the scars bleed
all over again,
like they do
every time I care,
every time I love.

It always ends the same:
with me feeling
like I’ll never be enough,
like I’ll never be the one
they truly want.

Just a maybe.
The one who loved
too hard,
too deeply.
Who smiled through the day,
and let her eyes bleed
through the night.

Cold.
Unheld.
No warm arms
to wrap around her,
to whisper,
"You are enough"
"You matter"
"You mean something"

But those words never came.
Just silence.
Just pain.
And more scars—
fresh,
red,
and aching.

a kind of love
everyone else seems to have—
soft,
gentle,
like being seen
and still being held?

The kind of love
where I mean something
just by existing.
Where someone chooses me,
not despite,
but because of
the mess I am,
the emotions I carry,
the storm I sometimes become.

Where being me
is enough.

The home she never had—
the one she always dreamt of.
A picture-perfect, loving family,
with a supportive dad,
a gentle, caring mom,
and an older sibling who protected her.

A home without fights,
without slammed doors,
without the quiet sobs
behind bathroom walls,
or the midnight tears
that no one saw—
because if they did,
they’d only judge.

A home where she didn’t have to hide,
where she could speak without fear,
where anxiety didn’t live in her chest
like a shadow that never left.

A place where she didn’t need to write
just to feel heard—
because someone, finally, listened.

Where love wasn’t something
she searched for in strangers’ arms,
because she had felt it
right there, at home.

She built that home in dreams each night—
because it never stood where she lived.

how come I'm the one left unloved?
How come I have no friends to turn to?
How come I'm always the one they judge —
never truly seen, never truly known?
How come there's no shoulder for my tears,
no arms to hold me when it hurts?
How come I keep wishing someone,
anyone, would care?
How come I still want to fit in,
even when it means losing pieces of myself?
How come I'm not me,
but who they want me to be?
And how come —
in the quietest moments —
I wonder if I should even exist at all?

I keep on waiting,
For hours that feel endless,
Just to hear his voice,
To tell him about my day,
To feel like I matter.

But he seemed distant,
Uninterested.
Our conversations faded
Until they barely existed.
He didn’t care—
At least, not the way I did.

And my heart,
It broke silently,
Into thousands of pieces
Scattered in places he'll never see.

I lie awake wondering:
What if he never cared?
What if I was never the one?
Was I ever enough?
Did I overreact?
Did I ruin it?
Maybe it was all my fault.

These thoughts crawl in,
Late at night,
Until I break down,
Until breathing feels like a burden,
And every fight replays
With me as the villain.

Why can't they just shut up—
for once—
and listen?

Why am I always the one
expected to hear,
to nod,
to stay quiet,
when they don’t even see
what I’m going through?

Why can’t they ask
what I feel like—
just once?

Why can’t they think about me
for once?
Why can’t they see
I’m dying a little
every day?

Every time I try to speak,
they brush it off
like it’s nothing—
like I’m nothing.

And it makes me feel like ****.
Makes me scared
to open my mouth again.
Makes me regret
ever opening up at all.

Because the truth is—
they never listened.
They never heard me.
They never even tried.

And it’s because
they don't gave a **** about me.
Maybe they never did.

I don’t get it—
how people run to their parents
when life gets hard.
How they’re met with open arms,
soft voices, safety.

I used to dream of that.
Of running to mine,
of hiding behind them like a child—
because I was a child.

I wanted to cry in their arms,
to fall apart
and be held together.
But I never could.

There was no softness there.
No arms to catch me,
only the weight of silence,
the sharp edge of being too much.

So I ran.
Not toward them,
but away—
as far as I could
just to find peace.