#middlechild - Hello Poetry

Have you met the middle child? Who cries alone at night, while their parents wonder if their siblings are alright. Have you met the middle child? Who smokes and sulks and swears, because they know that if they didn’t others wouldn’t notice they’re there. Have you met the middle child? Who works so hard to be smart, who learned to be one step ahead, before the others could even start. Have you met the middle child? Who feels so conflicted inside, and is always told what side to show and what side they must hide. Have you met the middle child? Either emotional or cold, because they wanted people to see them so they had to be bold. Have you met the middle child? Always lost in the inbetween, trying to find help somewhere but has already given up by thirteen. Have you met the middle child? For they are left behind, trying to tend to their wounds to which the others are blind.

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Jul 23, 2020

Jul 23, 2020 at 7:00 PM UTC

toalltheothers

Have you met the middle child?

Have you met the middle child? Who cries alone at night, while their parents wonder if their siblings are alright. Have you met the middle child? Who smokes and sulks and swears, because they know that if they didn’t others wouldn’t notice they’re there. Have you met the middle child? Who works so hard to be smart, who learned to be one step ahead, before the others could even start. Have you met the middle child? Who feels so conflicted inside, and is always told what side to show and what side they must hide. Have you met the middle child? Either emotional or cold, because they wanted people to see them so they had to be bold. Have you met the middle child? Always lost in the inbetween, trying to find help somewhere but has already given up by thirteen. Have you met the middle child? For they are left behind, trying to tend to their wounds to which the others are blind.

28

my parents dont love me. i was an accident. a mistake. concieved while they were drunk. they love my siblings all of them planned, beautiful, and smart they could never do anything wrong. in my parents' eyes. maybe it's because they weren't prepared for a second kid. as they were the first, third, fourth and fifth. but not the second. maybe it's my fault. after all everything i do is wrong. i cleaned it wrong. i made it wrong. i said it wrong. and everything i do is bad. my grades are bad. my height is bad. my hearing's bad. maybe its because they don't want a broken child. depression. anxiety. autism. SI. SH. who could be more broken compared to the others? maybe they were relieved when i was born half dead did they really want me here? maybe they did. so they could have a scapegoat. or an example of how not to do things. or an example of stupid. My parents don't love me and they never will. I'll always be an obligation and a financial burden.

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Oct 4, 2025

Oct 4, 2025 at 10:57 PM UTC

Cassi-Cole123

My parents don't love me

my parents dont love me. i was an accident. a mistake. concieved while they were drunk. they love my siblings all of them planned, beautiful, and smart they could never do anything wrong. in my parents' eyes. maybe it's because they weren't prepared for a second kid. as they were the first, third, fourth and fifth. but not the second. maybe it's my fault. after all everything i do is wrong. i cleaned it wrong. i made it wrong. i said it wrong. and everything i do is bad. my grades are bad. my height is bad. my hearing's bad. maybe its because they don't want a broken child. depression. anxiety. autism. SI. SH. who could be more broken compared to the others? maybe they were relieved when i was born half dead did they really want me here? maybe they did. so they could have a scapegoat. or an example of how not to do things. or an example of stupid. My parents don't love me and they never will. I'll always be an obligation and a financial burden.

39

There are three of us. But only two are ever really seen. My sister—the golden one, My brother—the untouchable. And me… somewhere in between love and disappointment. I think my mom loves me. I think. But she doesn’t like me. Not really. She says things like “Did I punish you after you wanted to jump off that bridge?” and calls it kindness. Calls it grace. As if not screaming at a suicidal daughter deserves applause. She uses my pain like a weapon. Waves my scars in my face when I try to speak up. “Why are you so dramatic?” “Why are you never happy?” “I gave you everything.” No, mom. You gave me silence. Guilt. Tears I learned to hide in pillows. You gave me the kind of love that only hurts. My brother breaks something— he gets a hug. I breathe wrong— and I get told I ruin everything. I flinch when people raise their voice. I shake in bakeries. I can’t even say “one roll, please” without my hands trembling. Because what if they laugh? What if I say it wrong? What if I’m too much again? I’m tired. Not like sleepy. Like… my soul wants to leave. Like my body is here but the rest of me checked out years ago. I cut because I need to feel something that makes sense. Because at least pain on my skin is something I can control. But her words? Her words stay longer. Her words dig deeper. I know I need help. But how do you ask for air when everyone else is already breathing? Sometimes I wonder what it would take for someone to really see me. Not the grades. Not the breakdowns. Not the cuts. Me. I’m the middle child. But maybe I was just the space between people who matter.

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Oct 29, 2025

Oct 29, 2025 at 4:44 PM UTC

finia

Unseen (a letter no one will read)

There are three of us. But only two are ever really seen. My sister—the golden one, My brother—the untouchable. And me… somewhere in between love and disappointment. I think my mom loves me. I think. But she doesn’t like me. Not really. She says things like “Did I punish you after you wanted to jump off that bridge?” and calls it kindness. Calls it grace. As if not screaming at a suicidal daughter deserves applause. She uses my pain like a weapon. Waves my scars in my face when I try to speak up. “Why are you so dramatic?” “Why are you never happy?” “I gave you everything.” No, mom. You gave me silence. Guilt. Tears I learned to hide in pillows. You gave me the kind of love that only hurts. My brother breaks something— he gets a hug. I breathe wrong— and I get told I ruin everything. I flinch when people raise their voice. I shake in bakeries. I can’t even say “one roll, please” without my hands trembling. Because what if they laugh? What if I say it wrong? What if I’m too much again? I’m tired. Not like sleepy. Like… my soul wants to leave. Like my body is here but the rest of me checked out years ago. I cut because I need to feel something that makes sense. Because at least pain on my skin is something I can control. But her words? Her words stay longer. Her words dig deeper. I know I need help. But how do you ask for air when everyone else is already breathing? Sometimes I wonder what it would take for someone to really see me. Not the grades. Not the breakdowns. Not the cuts. Me. I’m the middle child. But maybe I was just the space between people who matter.

67