I was taught from a young age that I was hard to love.
No one sat me down and said it, but when mommy and daddy were fighting, I knew at just six years old that it was because of me....
When I recall my childhood I don't see all the ways I was cherished, but rather all the ways in which I was resented.
I was hard to love.
In school I was hard to manage, hard to teach.
As a kid I was hard to like, hard to befriend.
When I was old enough I tried to find other people to love me.
I knew it was hard. That I was in fact the issue. But I craved the feeling so deeply I would wrap myself up in the prettiest bows and paper and ribbons I could find..
My first Boyfriend got everything from me. Even if I said no. He cheated on me still, and even though he was a monster to me
it stung to know even my monsters couldn't love to hurt me for too long....
I Gave everything to anyone who would take it after that.
I would carve out my heart, my lungs, my soul. I would cut away every piece that was undesirable if I could.
I'd starve it, hit it, hide it, change it.
I convinced that little girl that if she just tried enough, she could be worth something,
Someday.
That was a lie.
I learned that being a disappointment to everyone was more natural to me then breathing.
Sometimes adults would feel bad. They would offer insight that the other kids were scared, or jealous, or just plain ol mean.
But I knew it was just because I was wrong.
Inherently.
I was put on this earth as an inside joke to God. Not perfect in any image but the wrong one. As if every undesirable trait came together in some universal joke to show him "see"
"You can not create perfection without creating" me.
No parts were missing.
No amount of cutting or dying or trimming or learning would change me.
Maybe no one was ever really a monster to me, maybe I am the monster. To you. To them. To God.
To myself...
When I die it will bring the world into its peace.
But I am too selfish to do this, of course
Because what if even the Devil himself can not find something in me to love.
What if when I leave this world the earth refuses to swallow me up, and instead it spits me back out.
What if the reason I can't die yet is because no one will ever want me, even death?
What if as penance for my crimes I am to wander the earth alone and unloved always.
What if I am simply too hard to love.
YOU ARE READING
No one is there
Poetrypoetry book. all the things I've written that I could never say out loud. Some topics may be difficult for some people so check for disclaimers .
