"What are you so sad about?" My father asks me, sitting in the driver’s seat of his 30,000 dollar truck.
I sigh and look out the window. “I don’t know.” I reply, rather snottily.
He continues to rant about how I have so many things going for me,
Yet I see nothing.
He points out my talent in acting,
I point out my lack there of.
He points out my pretty face,
I point out how it has no effect in the lack of people I have to depend on.
He points out my drawing and art “skills”,
I point out my sister’s countless awards while I have none.
Reasons to be sad aren't always material.
Reasons to be sad shouldn't be small and trivial things,
But when I wake up and can’t fix my hair just the right way,
I get self-conscious about my entire appearance and mope about it all day.
Call me a ***** if you will.
But I know I am weak, and these days, I am wearing thin.
Like my pencil to paper as I scribble down another forty lines of a poem I will never read aloud.
All of my friends have their own problems, yes.
We all have problems of our own.
But for some reason, whenever I help someone else with theirs,
I feel worse about myself.
Perhaps I’m simply that pathetic, or perhaps I’m ungrateful like my father insists.
At least I do not claim “cars are not replaceable, people are.”
So when my sister cries about a friend from the internet that has killed them self, do not whine when she refuses to confront you after you have told her they were not a real friend.
When my sister asks you not to approach her in the store as you yell relentlessly about things that should not even matter,
Such as the sock she left in the hallway after bringing her laundry to her room,
Do not retaliate with a fist.
When I leave the house,
Yes, house, not home,
The first thing I think about is whether or not my sister will be safe in the same house as you.
Especially when the last time she was there and I was not,
She earned a scar for something she never did.
Old.
